I am everything my family seeded in me: intricate things made by hand, a basement of books and wool, a well two-hundred years old under the windmill. My name is war stories and mourning clothes, prairie dust and lace. Rumble of bass plucked as I sleep. I am sorrow and now I am also fruit […]
Filed under: Julie Robinson, Poems by by editor Date 20 September, 2012
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Always in the margins it is sleeting shades of diagonal blue that must be driven through to reach home. Wipers speeding my pulse pledges its red to Ariadne, weaver of the way in and out. The logs in my field at sunset have become a dark nucleus, a catacomb of maps that leads to itself, […]
Filed under: Julie Robinson, Poems by by editor Date 19 September, 2012
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