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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VII, Issue II

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..
..:: OTHER ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I

 
Poetry


My Mother Died and the Stretcher Didn't Fit So They Carried Her Out in a Blue Sheet: Alone in her duplex
Martha Clarkson

today, reckless boxing of porcelain and books,
ate a package of Ry-Krisp, flipped her small TV on at
seven, famous wheel spins, funeral home called, played "Take
Five," then preferred silence and sill creaks,
opened sardines, heaped her clothes in black leaf bags
for Goodwill, a man phoned selling rice, tomorrow I have
to disconnect childhood phone number, line dead

 

 

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