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Three Poems from Maša Torbica

Anni Mirabiles Gnawed women warned me: love is something spiteful spat at us by the stars. Lust, a spit we tie ourselves to turning    grinning    crisping    for a brief feast. Wide-eyed, I watched people slice into each other daily, sharpening, serrating utterances with nonchalant malice, then bearing down, sawing away until hilt hits gristle. No one could steer me toward worldly survival. Hopeful, I grew…

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Two Poems from Shannon K. Winston

The Girl Who Talked to Paintings For Katharine Millet, the original subject of John Singer Sargent’s Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose Painting, 1885-1886 I. Syllable by syllable, my father’s words bore into me. Metal-edged, spiked, they always lodged in the most tender tissues— curled on the floor at the base of my bed, I made myself small as a seed. I pressed my cheek against the green…

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The Museum of Palpable Art

I decided to give the Museum of Palpable Art one last go before I gave it up as a bad job. The first two times had been busts, plain and simple. And when I had handed back my tangled EEG device to the docent after the first failed trip, beyond exasperated, she had looked at me with an unbearable sort of pity.  “It doesn’t work…

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Three Poems of Separation

The tree outside the barbershop was struck down sometime last night, its Siamese boughs wrenched from each other in violent divorce and the weaker flung to the ground— someone, some official someone, has hedged the afflicted area with yellow cautionary tape, as if to fence in the tragedy, or demarcate the location of a corpse— and misting from the open wood is fragrance: xylem and…

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