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Poetry

Recent Issue

With a View to the Black Walnut Tree

My daughter throws up once or twice a day opening mouth then hands as if to pour out what was once clenched. Throws up pillows, backpacks, and refrigerators. Builds a version of our cat from pretend vomit, builds a version of our kitchen. I worry

I can’t sooth her fears. It is terrible 

The White Shirt

Sometimes, a teacher proposes / we write about something / insignificant, or a friend requests // that poems and posts not get so  / political.

VQR Online

Two Medicine

December 3, 2020

Imagine you could learn 
the names of every river,
each upthrust mountain
and fault folded on itself:

Last Supper

December 3, 2020

I cannot remember the last meal I shared with my father.
Only those long last nights slipping him what ice chips
he could still stomach and then swabbing his chapped lips
with a wetted pink sponge.

The Household Gods

December 3, 2020

Forgive me, 
I have smuggled them away
from my father’s house to this sodden pitch
in the middle of my life, their names 
asleep under my tongue. I have walked