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… it all these years; who expects to get that close to what points to heaven? Now we could study the salt-peeled paint … since the Methodists decamped, their severe white ark become a museum instead. Two, actually: first a temple of the … folding easels for still lifes on the lawn or portrait studies by the bay, or scattered on the streets to paint what …

… your working life,” asks an exasperated wife, “you’ve studied these stories. Why?” She means the stuff of folklore, … of the Catherine Doctorow Innovative Fiction Prize from FC2, with a rousing introduction by Laird Hunt. It collects … underscore the cyclical arrangement, overall; as Hunt points out in his preface, the collection opens “I was …

… 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 …