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It hasn’t happened yet: the awkward bloom / of my children’s bodies, the bathroom pin-lock / pushed in, the steady stream of marathon showers, / bolts of thick steam all shadowy blue.
January 2024Lonely and a little bored, / I used to donate blood every eight weeks / at the Red Cross across the street / from my studio apartment. / Eyes skyward, arm shot straight, I’d sigh / as a butterfly needle settled on my skin, / its plastic wings drawn to a vein / in my forearm
January 2021Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
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