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By Amy Bornman Poetry

The first pregnancy: “my belly growing big, for what? / no one can tell me what’s going on. / nausea I don’t understand, weeping / for hormones with no name.

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Venetian Villanelle

By Robert McNamara Poetry

She is a mother first—in every church she lights a candle for her harrowed son. One already lit supplies the match. Today San Stefano, above her stretched a heaven of dark keel vaulting. Here an icon, Byzantine, true presence in the church of the second Eve, the mother she beseeches. She gives a euro to…

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