Fall 2015

Edited by Andrea Spofford | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright



Poetry

Love is all we ever had (and it was always enough)

April Michelle Bratten


Years ago, fresh marram grass freed girlish ankles
beneath a developing world of stars and prey-birds.
We clutched hands fiercely on sand dune,
where everything was big and little dipper, together,
our mouths sweet garments for the night’s naked body,
while a few miles away, a green-gabled home waited.

The days were even more dangerous and lovely
as we cried into the breasts of Canada,
petted at her mother spirit with lilies in our teeth,
made harsh love to leaves and branches, and watched
the fox chomp on afternoon dirt, alive,
without the fear of God’s belling call.

As I fly from this place, falling sky, let my children open
their sleeping bird mouths; let them write their soft poems
to the evening rain. Remind them that sometimes you must leave
the flowers unpicked and the trees breathless.

The late cadaver sings, but it’s holy.
I am eager for the after—




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