INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Shutta Crum
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ARTIST'S VIEW Charcoal point Waits for the line Of her cheek to appear. In the conference room The only thing that moves Are the trees. Sirens no longer stay outside Of the thickly-settled doors. There is no end to the glass in the windows. As she turns her head The curves sink and rise Into profile. Resting along the concave of her neck The down of a gray dove Refuses to yield to the foreground. MISSING A RIDER Marriage will be One of the horses lacking. Failure will go to the paddocks Jasper guarding dirt Airs above the ground. Lutine, white, after throwing her body Into twists blackly rising. Buggy waiting in my perfect proportions. Soap rings on my arms. Closets full of husband disappointments. Petals fall away from a bird transfixed Upwardly staring at its wings. THE "A" TRAIN We lean into each metal curve Interlocking, with one space Left for a child. Over bridges Over black waters we ride My breath is in a ghetto. Amelia Arcamone-Makinano, Queens, New York
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