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June 30, 2014 |
in Poetry |
admininfin8 |
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Shower in the dark, a fleeting flash of phosphorescence–a jellyfish glowing in the depths of the sea. Reach for it. The smoke of light shrinks away. Ghost of a face, ghost of a man...
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June 29, 2014 |
in Poetry |
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0
i.m. India’s missing girls This is not really myth or secret. This murmur in the mouth of the mountain where the sound of rain is born. This surging past pilgrim town and village...
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June 29, 2014 |
in Poetry |
admininfin8 |
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blurs at the start of life (How adorable! Boy or girl?) and end (shaving my mother’s whiskers …). Only the horny middle makes us choose...
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June 28, 2014 |
in Poetry |
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0
/> DENICE FROHMAN is an award-winning poet, lyricist, and educator, whose work explores the intersections of race, gender, sexuality, and the “in-betweeness” that exists...
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June 23, 2014 |
in Poetry |
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“Feminism is a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and...
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May 30, 2014 |
in Poetry |
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0
I might be killed because I’m a Jew visiting a Holocaust museum or going to study Torah. I might be shot or stabbed because I’m a woman and some man feels entitled and deprived...
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April 24, 2014 |
in Poetry |
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You decided, to open up your hand and decorate my cheek with fire. A swift movement across the face. Your mistake: i. not killing me, ii. striking with bloomed digits as if for fashion, or...
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April 23, 2014 |
in Poetry |
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0
The winter wasn’t that long, really– forty years, you say? Forget it. Move on to spring. We’ve grown with these boulders since they were pebbles pushing the earth,...
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April 23, 2014 |
in Poetry |
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Like this city, she has been everything: best and worst, lost and found, powerful and destitute. Cut her open at the wrist and see what steel bleeds from her. She will rise again....
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April 23, 2014 |
in Poetry |
admininfin8 |
0
So I survived then, didn’t I? In those harsh winter months? I took up stamp collecting. Thinking. Traveling. Why? In harsh winter, months following weather of convertibles and...
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April 22, 2014 |
in Poetry |
admininfin8 |
0
for Julia Garland Murphy, my great-grandmother When my forbears homesteaded northwest Detroit to grow bushels of berries on brambles in fields, grand wagon wheels rutted dirt...
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April 22, 2014 |
in Poetry |
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0
The fledglings, how do they do it? And the new-furred rabbits, emerging from the nest? Something amiss is what the air, electric, must warn the starlings; the rabbits, they leave at...
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April 22, 2014 |
in Poetry |
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0
This first day of a new year clouds blues skies visible through the melt of smog, a light drift of noxious air smelling of burnt things. We walk the streets, quiet with the serenity of a...
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April 21, 2014 |
in Poetry |
admininfin8 |
0
The vein caterpillars up, sucks it down through a glass straw, then we vanish. Its bliss, by the mean of memory can not be resurrected, only performed. Perhaps no different...
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April 14, 2014 |
in Poetry |
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0
When metaphors slide the scalp back to its abyss of bone. When the simile proves like more human than is. When you heard the metal rod striking bone. Yes, it is bone. The palate halved. The...