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I used my legs and heart as if I would
gladly use them up for this,
to touch him again in this life
A submission from Lifshin would often include dozens of poems about a single subject: a relationship, a memory, dancing the tango. (Dance — including ballet and ballroom — was her second great love, after writing.)
By Lyn LifshinAugust 2020I drop by on a Saturday. Your mom lets you answer my knock on the apartment door. The cap of your gastrostomy tube is outlined against your unicorn T-shirt.
By Owen CasonAugust 2020In this desecrated area, the women searching for firewood must dig up the roots of the trees they have long since cut down to make space for crops.
By Jane GoodallJuly 2020I’d thought dating would make me feel less grief, but it was the opposite. I decided to delete my Match.com account and learn to masturbate. I had enough sadness in my own life.
By Beth AlvaradoJuly 2020I. / I remember shaking hands: / damp sweaty hands and dry scratchy hands, / bone-crushing handshakes and dead-fish handshakes, / two-handed handshakes, my hand sandwiched / between a pair of big beefy palms.
By Lesléa NewmanJune 2020In the stillness there are forces and voices and hands and nourishment that arise, that take our breath away, but we can never know this, know this, until we rest.
By Wayne MullerMay 2020— from “Estelle And Bob” | My father kneels at my mother’s grave / to ask her permission to go on match.com.
By Michael MarkMay 2020My great-aunt was not the type of lady to smoke / out on the porch. No, she lit up in her living room, and up / and down the stairs, and in her bedroom on hot / Mississippi nights with the windows thrown open.
By Shuly Xóchitl CawoodMay 2020Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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