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Glowworm

By Hailey Leithauser Poetry

I am the whisper matches rattle in their cold and boxy hovels. I’m desire gone to ground. I am efficient, almost secret; you can read in me such scripture of the most compacted and contented red-light district. Impish sample seraph, humblest in lust, I am the apocryphalest rumor waiting just around the corner. See me…

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Some Small Bone

By Hailey Leithauser Poetry

Some small bone in your foot is longing for heaven                           —Robert Bly This twinge at first stir too modest for throb, more diffident than tug, not an itch, not the most incurious twitch of a hook, not a jerk, but the tease…

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Field

By Benjamin Myers Poetry

Heaven is a field I am driving an old truck across in the only dream I have on the subject. The sky over that pasture is so blue I know it will burst if it doesn’t turn twenty different reds at evening. The truck is my granddad’s ’72 Ford, still smelling of oilfield and aftershave.…

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are you my god

By Richard Chess Poetry

in every generation, each person must regard himself or herself as if he or she were the one liberated, on the very night of Passover, from Egypt                                         adapted from the Passover Haggadah This won’t do, the Seder your grandmother cooked and indexed on cards to leap down the generations; this won’t do, the Seder…

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Prodigal

By Richard Jones Poetry

My aged father and I enjoy the silence between us as we sit in the Adirondacks, watching the children playing tag on the lawn and running in circles, happy to be it or not to be it, happy just to be, though I know they give no thought to being. My father leans toward me…

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Pont des Arts

By Richard Jones Poetry

The pain passes, ——but the beauty remains.                             —Renoir Wandering the Musée de l’Orangerie with my sister, we find a bouquet of roses painted in 1878 by Auguste Renoir, voluptuous white roses placed in a red velvet chair. My sister says Renoir’s last word was “flowers” and that toward the end of his life he…

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The Assumption of Miriam from a Winter Street, 1942

By Jerzy Ficowski Poetry

incalculable snow was coming down heaven in tatters was slipping down thus she was ascending passing motionlessly white after white a mild height after height in the Elijah’s chariot of her humiliation above the fallen angels of snowflakes into the zenith of frost higher and higher hosanna raised to the lowest   Translated from the…

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Prayer to the Holy Louse

By Jerzy Ficowski Poetry

It was in the spring of 1944, during the delousing of the Gypsy barracks in the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp skirts scarves withered in the delousing room all in protective colors in poppies in buttercups in daisies in case of a meadow that wasn’t going to appear a Gypsy in the bathhouse of birkenau stripped of colors…

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[Honey lives only]

By Jerzy Ficowski Poetry

Eat honey, my son, for it is good, and the honeycomb, which is sweet to thy taste. ———–—Proverbs 24:13 Honey lives only in hexagons because they ensure a balance of sweetness their shape is a star’s design six implied triangles drinking from the center’s source shrouded in the most frugally abundant capacity in order not…

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