Poems

Lisa 

by Roberto Bolaño: When Lisa told me she had made love / with another, in the eternal / telephone booth of life / in the market in Tepeyac, I thought the world / ended.

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Sky/Branches/Sky

by Beverly Burch: On a low sloping hillside in early December— / where? Tennessee? New Jersey?—we lay back / after a long walk. You went on about something, / maybe politics—I’d stopped listening.

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Good

by Ellery Akers: 1. When my mother fell face down onto her salad at the table, / or dug her carefully polished nails into my arm and said, “It’s all your fault,”

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Nice

by Barbara Crooker: after “La Promenade des Anglais à Nice,”  Raoul Dufy / The row of palm trees curved along the Baie des Anges / like a strand of beads on the long white neck / of a beautiful woman, and the blue Mediterranean

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