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Edward Bartok-Baratta

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In the Night

My father has my ear. He comes to me in my sleep, and like coring an apple, with his ax he has lifted my ear from the side of my face. Not bad, I think, for a policeman, who was taught mostly to wield a gun and a bat. He sits late, the ear on a plat [...]


Autumn 2000 | Poetry

A gift the world has given me so that I can, this morning, work on this poem—no you to criticize me, to poke fun at the length of the line, or the poverty of the image; only another one, like me, somewhere in the future, poring over the small pr [...]

The Murderer, the Murdered, and Me

Spring 2003 | Poetry

Edward Bartók-Baratta   Now is always the season, a man raising his shoe, a shovel, a woman turning her head, lifting her hands, running from a    room, or asleep. The future doesn't care. They were there, she no longer is [...]