Genre: Poetry


 after Brigit Pegeen Kelly


The eye was open, and wide, and writhed in a wretched way,

Not as a marble would roll out of a child’s hand, no, it writhed

Like a worm would away from its halved self.

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a. Driving Home from the Night Shift, Our Mother
    Listens to Hank Williams’ “Lost Highway”

She cracks the window,
letting the cold air

slap her awake. Cranking
the radio, she sings

along as she leans
into the burn of …

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