Michele Sharpe

CRACKER   As in born in Florida, left Florida, came home and left again. Came home to die. As in here I’ll lie. As in daddy’s...
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Francesca Bell

I peer into the little darkness / her flesh holds, // thinking how a person can’t stop herself

Francesca Bell

Each month comes the reminder / of the gash God made in me. / I like to think He made it / with one finger, the way an artist / will reach right into a painting / and finish it off.

Kelli Russell Agodon

There’s an old dog limping in the yard / and it’s my old dog. Bless the sweet / fog he roams through and call that that sweet / fog

J.D. Schraffenberger

This is for your own good he said / What’s good for the goose he said // He said oh my goodness / Only the good die young

Rachel Morgan

Hold everything with an open palm: the spoon / to stir sugar in morning coffee, the morning, / especially work that follows morning.

THE POEM: Robert Peake on Marvin Bell’s “Wednesday”

Poetry came to me, like it comes to Bell in this poem, as the inkling of something magnificent and otherworldly amidst the everyday drudgery of mundane living. Poetry became the only language that made sense to me. I got up before dawn to read and write, because poetry gave me a reason to throw off the body-warm quilt and face the day.

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