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Teetle Clawson lives with her husband in Santa Cruz, California, and has started writing poems after two long careers: the first as a visual artist and art educator for at-risk children and young adults; the second as cofounder and CFO of a high-tech medical company.
It was too quiet: no bellowing of elk, no call of owls. As I opened the front door, I could smell the beef stew I’d left simmering on the stove, but there was no music, and our dog Neva did not greet me.
March 2022In the early seventies / Greg and I moved back to the land. / Here, no National Guard, no protests / on the steps of Bank of America, / no hash to smuggle into Isla Vista.
July 2015My husband killed himself in our kitchen, / a wide-open room with a forty-gallon barrel / of water standing close to the old woodstove.
October 2013Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
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