Gettysburg Review
Gettysburg College | 300 N. Washington Street | Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

Poetry

Ugglig

by Michelle Boisseau

Clock in the hall, tea in cups, Henry James has come to call on George Eliot. “To begin with,” he writes his father, “she is magnificently ugly, deliciously hideous.”

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Carried Away

by Alice Friman

The Rapture must have been cancelled.
The only sudden flight I’ve seen
belongs to the bird nesting in my begonias
who takes off each time I open the door.

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“Agricultural Fair”

by Tina Barr

Four little pigs ran in an orbit, an oblong
of four tracks, each ringed with a colored
collar, toward a pile of neon Cheetos,
then disappeared into their home trailer.

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“Necklace”

by Linda Pastan

If each couplet should represent a single pearl,
are these strung beads at my throat words disguised as pearls?
The hooked fish looks up at them with recognition
as his eyes fade to the opacity of pearls.

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“Lament”

by Katharine Jager

Who weeps for cracked bluestone

pavements? For flowering lindens, their havoc
wrought on lung and sinus, for the flower
shops laden with peonies each winter?

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“Psalm with Doors and Windows Open”

by Richard Lyons

The trees distract my attention and remember me as a passing,
as do the open windows and doors, and a flashing bicyclist
and a line of schoolkids on a rope between their tenders.
I move uneasily across a bridge, my hair gusting.
I’ve forgotten my little hat with the brim so I fret a little.

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“Song”

by Lynn Domina

The body says, I am a galaxy. Choose
sixteen or seven or ten stars and write your story
within their image: dragon, swan, virgin.
Your story will exceed the stars’ boundaries.

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“See Coast Hurrying into Sea”

by Amy McCann

Didn’t it doily me? Wave-lace
tatting my ankles in an uneven

hem. A forgotten umbrella, a foraging
for shells—those vacant, softly

howling dwellings. . . .

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“America Mix-Tape, Track 54”

by Jason Myers

We are living in paradise.
The front desk is open twenty-four hours,
the police speak seven languages and don’t dwell
on the insults they’ve endured, the hurts they’ve overheard.

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“Raiders of the Eskaton”

by Philip St. Clair

. . . when the Rapture comes, they will be taken up
only halfway: forever suspended in the middle of the clouds
    as the checkerboard earth and the vast blank oceans
revolve beneath, as cryptic patterns left by intercontinental jets
    slowly fade away against the blue-black dome above.

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