I Name You Anna – The amaryllis is tipping her brilliant crimson into the desk. Her curled stamens, once bold-gold are suffering into their own dusts. Some has already let go to a halo surround, their ‘come and get me’ finger tips lingering in impotence. It’s been Christmas since. There are six remaining blooms & I’ve turned the drying dying ones to face the south-east away from me. Such blunted hunger, bulbed in her ball of wax. Dwarfed. I wonder, when she is finally spent, can I crack that red wax trapping her bulbs & set into her a pending rescue? Can I find, over the course of this next three seasons, a savory soil she can expand in, & spread the span of her bulbed clavicles, her rooted backbones into sybaritic santana’d black, nudging up, coming from nothing but her own mothere’...
corner window pocket of air at the Olsen House Cushing, Maine Lull I am writing you from inside a body that used to be yours. Which is to say, I am writing as a son. Ocean Vuong On Earth, We're Briefly Gorgeous Some of the snow is receding. T- shirt receding. I mean: it’s February and yesterday it was 57. I see last year’s green in patches. I see snowmelt in the birdbath. The rim is slick with it to the brim. I see the thin tango of a twine of morning glory vines in the surface of that water: still, then ripple when the l...
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