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 Oct 2011 claire
Nica Poznanovich
I am your crane
Your peacock
Your rose

I lie still and naked before you
Awaiting delicate bends
Those weathered hands
Push hard against me
From end to end
I am happy to succumb

The folds run deep, my love
I cannot escape them
Like the battle scars of warriors
I wear them with pride
With each crease
I faintly whisper your name
Can you hear the subtle cries?
They are all for you now

I cannot see the end
As I know you can
But it has never mattered
As I am nothing without you
And everything with you
Your crane
Your peacock
Your rose
 Oct 2011 claire
Mary Ann Osgood
i said i didn’t miss you so i wouldn’t
but you made me
listen
to things you wrote, gave, made
did it say something about love? she wonders these things aloud
it’s hard to keep them in when you’ve been thinking them so long
without even noticing.
sometimes just noise is enough to change a person

I haven’t looked in the mirror, she lied
because she was self-conscious about being more beautiful
and about changing so often.

if there is enough to go around, let’s all cry.
all of us.
if you listen hard enough beneath music, there are words
and they are talking to you.
why is it so hard to do something you don’t want to it says
questions that don’t have answers

why is it so hard to do something you do want to do?

what if I just go back?
what if I never go big – just go home
sleep in a cabin
eat fish
become something greater than myself
before I become less than I was before?

I keep trying to think of new ways to touch you
sometimes you touch me back
but often you don’t seem to notice me here
I just need you to need me back.
but I’m alone in more ways than one.

listening to you again feels good.
why did I never get through to you?
why did I never get to BE with you?
I don’t care who you were, why wouldn’t you let me see? why wouldn’t you let anyone see?

you try to forget the things that plagued you
but they have a way of coming back – me, it’s because I want them to.
I like the despair of old fears, of rekindling something dead,
of sitting by a campfire in the woods alone thinking about what you should have said to your parents before you left
or what you should do when you’re in love with more than one person
because no one plans that stuff
no one plans dying.

where are the metaphors you ask
and I tell you they are in the universe, full of color
full of something that we try to understand but have too many names for

I am going to ask you one question, and you have to promise to answer.
promise.

get lost in something
and you can start to tell the difference between you and someone else
if you feel sad, that’s okay. just stop trying to hide it
just stop trying to hide
just stop hiding

who are you?
you promised.
 Oct 2011 claire
PK Wakefield
SleEp)?
you,'re are an pale sweeping pliant loosely club
        bashing softness
  upon my cobbled unsplendid
      ink
                    and smashing
     viscously the poppies
          stubborn lungs
                                                          dusted
                                                             imperfectly
                                                               arrogance
                                                          a you lovely supple fire
                                                        the opened closeness
                                                                of cotton treasure
                                                             fluttering
                                                                               existential
                                                                    motes
                                                                                and the you
                                        

smell like razors          cluttering
        silverly
                        the knelling
           harbor
                            of
           my
                       soft     hardness

                and
you are a majesty .wholly





                                                          unalone
 Oct 2011 claire
Sara Teasdale
It will not hurt me when I am old,
   A running tide where moonlight burned
    Will not sting me like silver snakes;
The years will make me sad and cold,
    It is the happy heart that breaks.

The heart asks more than life can give,
   When that is learned, then all is learned;
    The waves break fold on jewelled fold,
But beauty itself is fugitive,
    It will not hurt me when I am old.

— The End —