Spring 2015

Edited by Andrea Spofford | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright



Poetry

Doe

Peter LaBerge


What I have
in this tight mouth

are two sentences
I drank from the river.

My name is Jane.
Once, my father taught

me how to swim. I was
emptied into his oval

tub. Momma’s lipstick
still bleeding from my lips.

And above the skin, there
was no red as true. Water,

brought in its cast-
iron buckets. I was lifted

into it as a prayer. In this river
there is no god for a boy like me.

Just the rain, the language
it has spoken

against the tin roof.




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