Spring 2017

Edited by Andrea Spofford | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright



Jessica Guzman Alderman

Three cockatiels crowd the birdcage, creep

across the bamboo perch to the pulse

of rain puddling in a corner of the seed

guard, below the leaky skylight spring.




The palmist asks to feel a woman’s pulse,

says, “A wolf through the door is love’s creep

out the window,” predicts a cold spring,

suggests a diet of fig and apple seeds.





A girl draws hearts the way wind seeds

a song along the block, mattress springs

indenting her knees—her pinkie pulses

against the pencil’s steady creep.




Behind my knee an amber freckle springs

like a curved wrench run to seed

by rust, like a winter dusk creeps

up on suppertime, quickens the pulse.



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