INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Alan Britt
Lisa Schmidt
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BACKTRACKING Owasco how your waters swarm mirages of moonlight through oak leaves where I stand tonight How this same light breaking my own body into pieces heals it seamlessly below your overlapping waves How the Iroquois named you Owasco: Passage long before Christian missionaries sipped your ripples' edge running cold against their bleeding blue lips and with their rough burlap sleeves wiped their mouths dry of you BEFORE FALLING ASLEEP What little light of the moon spruce pines allow through my window taking the shape of a colorless butterfly's wingbeats vanishes then reappears in the shape of a much later hour or a rain wrapped sundrop hanging from the edge of a yellow strawflower's stiff petal cuddled by a honeybee LOOK NO FURTHER Hands rub gravel filled mud from a stone until the glimmer from a shine off its wet skin reveals another light living just inside this stone and which to my surprise turns out to be my own eyes which when forced to close forgot there was ever the slightest chance they could ever be one and the same as this stone and open THIRST I cup night in my hands sipping from every wrinkle and crack between its wobbly planets a deep blend of darkness mixed with just a sound of water where endless reflections of stars are kept intact and whose light has never been so quenching as right now
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