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Fridays at the Healer’s

By Charity Gingerich Poetry

Once a week he holds me against him like a child and I inhale wood and horse and earth, sometimes  sweat (not sharp with the agony of hurry but warm,   like a tree trunk seeping sap on a sunny day); I keep  my eyes closed, as if afraid time will shift like a rocking boat beneath my feet, and that…

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Love Poem, Ending

By Courtney Flerlage Poetry

There will be thousands of warm nights

like this one, millions of the beetles, this whole darkened face
of earth erupting in brief constellations.

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Vespers

By Courtney Flerlage Poetry

Praise the mockingbird,

unashamed that he is alone, praise the beetle,
the hornet, all night’s shy & vicious ornaments . . .

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Aubade

By Michael Dechane Poetry

This silence before
love pulls itself
apart, against
the current of its own
longing, is the most terrible
silence I know.

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Countershine

By Amy Leach Essay

Of course complicating considerations can occur with the immaterial, too, as you might be into time and gravity but not augury or angels—or you might be into some angels, like the six-winged amber ones, but not the messenger of death.

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Behemoth

By Bruce Bond Poetry

When photos of a million horrors
made the papers, a million eyes stopped
and stared, the way a glass of water stares,
and the railcar around it coming to rest.

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In the Studio

By Armen Agop Interview

I used to ask myself why humans go through sacrifices and insist on creating things that no one asked for or cares about. But not anymore. I realize that, in my case at least, it is simply an instinctive drive to do, and that’s my way of being.

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