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… The Ghosts We Love When I was eleven my father died in a tragic inner-tube accident. If he hadn’t, then maybe I would not have become what I am—namely, a forty-two-year-old brother … face was flushed and he was whistling a happy tune and he also looked taller, more erect, as though after all those …

… condolences trailing behind them like coon tails on aerials, and the flower wreaths were wilting on the grave. “I … tonight or pay the fiery price,” and they’d pause for her commercial as fireflies Morse-flashed around the abelia. … look away. It was always a Planter’s peanut can, and I had come to hate them. Mr. Goober on the blue tin was always …

Dark Bird What do you want with me today, dark bird? Why are you flying low, beneath that branch? I know your shadow: you were long since gone, My killdeer, rough-winged swallow, mourning dove, Death plays its flute with all your bones, dark bird, You …

… I will sleep here         next to you. My blood will take comfort in the sheets, will be loved         into the … the blood in the sun and know only that someone slowly died here. Poetry 175 By Julianna Baggott …

… of devastation. Within months came records, poems, novels, comics, essays, academic and political studies, films, TV shows, exposés, paintings, blogs. Now there … only what context immediately informs his scenes. He also resists the standard encomia to pat Big Easyisms— …