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Copyright © 2009 Wordletting. All rights reserved. All rights to the poetry on this website are owned by the individual authors, and no part of this site may be reproduced, published, distributed, displayed, performed, copied, or used in any other manner for public or private purposes. |
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Issue 4 |
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Page 1 |
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demeter as cypress
those hands of his, chilled and brittle as just-turned earth, taking her under roots and blind worms, his dust-choked halls, heavy-veined stones weighing her down, lightless, buried, the cries of torment writhing in her ears, sans night, sans day,
my beautiful girl, with hair spun down to her ankles, who caught sun's rays and flung them out around her like liquid, every step a song with an arc deep as the sky.
my hands knot supplicant. i do not know how to kneel but i have knelt. like a tree's limb battered under a ceaseless wind.
— sara couden |
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Touch Me
draw me how I was in spring sable brush roundness of a field don't look away gather flowers where horizons disappear slide down my shoulder like a thin strap touch me press and softly churn the creases of my mind
— Sergio Ortiz |
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My Before
In this still point, we shared a veil of blue wool.
In bare feet we marched the parameter of the front lawn on an early August evening. A little bride dressed in blue matching your footprints in the damp grass
From this still point my tiny toes with chipped neon pink polish made an expedition to its edge to take one last breath of childhood before passing through its porous cusp.
Before your airborne infection of want and need hurtled me forward, depositing me on the other side of girlhood.
— Shannon Quinn |
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The old man sits in his room
On the green chair he got when his grandmother died he thinks about the day to come, and he decides that he can’t move. The sky is still red. And everything he has been and was is found inside the grooves of the life carved behind him, carved for him with purpose and a gentle press like the pressure applied to a cut but no one can admit that this distress is not a mistake. Strategically placed. His life is erased so it can be drawn.
— Jake Arnold |
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Untitled
I hold a shriveled tree in my palm Listening for bird calls far away Wondering how long until the end Of hoping for a new voice arrives Rise of darkness becomes A form of silent extinction in Empty winter branches— I am Sitting on a river bank layered With years of silted remains Carried into stagnant waters. Dippers have left these shores Leaves blow into wet hollows Piled thick and rotten underneath Smelling of old loss heavy now Almost beyond repose this poor Tree frozen in my withered hand Like tiny birds missing from Daybreak, this deep silence Settling in for the final act.
— Emily Strauss |