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Dee
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Sophie Scholl's Last Visit...
Sophie Scholl’s Last Visit with her Mother: Stadelheim Prison, February 22, 1943               “Die Sonne scheint noch.” –Sophie Scholl’s final words Like watching two thousand doves let loose,               Mama, taking wing from university balconies—                            the descending petals of 1700 white roses dispensing our me
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Bound By Blood
Bound by Blood Ave Maria, Ave, Ave, pray for us, Mary, ohhh pray. She pleads to painted porcelain, fat fingers embracing each other. Her unmarried son’s voice fades. Mom, we’re having a baby. Thirty Hail Mary’s: futile— like the day her sister called, giddy almost to tears with news: Ellen, I’m getting remarried. She cried that day, too, photocopying pages from Principles of Canonical Law, dictating Jesus’ insistence that she boycott her only sister smiling in the ivory gown nearly destroyed by a careless daughter. Seven years later, the only reminder of her niece’s inattention: shadows in a
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Arienette Hears Her Song
Arienette Hears Her Song The only part of him mirrors ever watched: powder-coated interior of his left nostril, origin of infamous fevers. But his fans only want to know about the conception of genius, how he brought about sounds that captured madness, the part I played, why I didn’t stay. I want to know what they would do with a sweating pianist shrieking down the telephone line at four a.m., howling apologies at five, screaming again at six. Where are you, Arienette? I want my pound of flesh, & wolves that frighten him can have the rest.
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My Mother's Daughter
My Mother’s Daughter I’m curling a backward C into your side, the way       I used to, Saturday mornings before you remarried               and I learned to share. Chewie chuffs, so I bury               my face in her fur, and you don’t see me flinch      when you say, You’re built like a 12-year-old boy; soon the only people chasing you will be women. Swaddled in heavy blue velveteen, skin still moist       and smelling of Midnight Pomegranate, I beautify              my reflection, until you come down to make your              voice heard. I wouldn’t even feel comfortable       introducing
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For Robert
For Robert I threw a nickel into the ugly fountain at the Berkshire Mall & wished—       months after Mommy told me cancer       meant very sick & I told her we should       bring you soup and tea— to slide down Penn Avenue stairs, clasp our tiny hands together, raise voices,       bounce our bottoms on every step,       racing up to repeat. Soft splash & clink       of descending metal, Mommy’s tears falling on new pink polyester & her whisper: Baby, I should have told you sooner.
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Gilded Zinc
Gilded Zinc Sitting at the table where your girlfriend drinks her coffee every morning, you iron out the lines in your forehead with calloused fingertips, purse your lips and tell me, Right now, this is safe, but you're one of those monumental women. I remember first grade, how I listened to metal chiming against metal against my grandfather's rough skin as I dumped my change. I frowned while he sorted, held the dullest, said, This one is special. After 1983, they replaced bronze and copper with zinc, copper-plated—more beautiful to look at, longer-lasting. You can hear the difference. He dropped a '76 and a '92 onto
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Atropos, picking at bandages:
Atropos, picking at her bandages: I learned on a fifteen-year-old boy who picked the wrong time to run across the street to the grocery store. Then the tapestry blurred; I couldn't even bring the blades near the loom until Lachesis started laughing. Weep as long as you need to, little sister; he's the one left lying in the middle of the street, taking all the time in the world to die. Clotho interwove her mirth, and I stood mute, clenching metal in my fists until blood dripped onto the skein. In perfect unison they guided my stained fingers, pressed cutting edges to the dangling thread until the wool split, and his mother
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Final Bows--Medea at Corinth
Final Bows—Medea at Corinth Tomorrow they will call me a monster, among harsher titles, between prayers and vows for vengeance. Once they put out the final fire, they will leave you to bury charred Creusa and her father beside our two sons. But while I have you here now, think of tomorrow. Calling me monster won't stop this. I still hear my brother pleading, Jason doesn't love; he lusts for power and vengeance. Once you've put out the fire in his loins, he'll already be seeking a new lover— I cut him off, then, with a few well-placed blows. They've called me a killer and a whore across the Aegean, from that first murder to this
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Midnight, West Reading Diner
Midnight, West Reading Diner —for Justin You were smoking for me, one Camel Light after the other, ground into a pile of ash in a black plastic dish. They weren't your lungs to safeguard, but you were adamant, refusing to share despite my appeals. Setting your Olympus Digital on the table, you watched me on LCD, and I talked to the girl in the mirrored wall, my fingers following the outlines of her clavicles, feeling bone through chilled flesh to soothe petulant nerves, while she lifted a steaming mug to my lips. You let me have the seat aimed at that wall, knowing I needed to consider my reflection, like you knew I
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Thoroughly Modern
Thoroughly Modern I don't miss you in sweeping waves of anguish like the boys with cheap guitars and dyed black hair that we ridiculed. I miss you minutely; the minor changes in routine are mental splinters: driving home after an eight-hour shift, aching feet and fudge-smeared arms, I should be calling you, rambling ridiculously and ending with, Well, anyway, I love you. And I've been taking melatonin ever since the last time the LCD flickered, Good night, beautiful.
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Dad Called It Tact
Dad Called It Tact He only gave bad news when we were alone in the car, driving along the mountain road I loved in fall so when I asked, he said, I don't know, Love. I don't know why, but he promised it would pass. I had no words—it stole my breath—but in his usual way, he gave me the news when we were alone. It was always something worse each time we'd go to lunch or a backyard party—or when he'd call and I'd ask why he didn't know. Love, I don't know all the details yet, but we'd put our trust in chemo- therapy, and prayer. A year later, they hadn't caught it all, and when he gave the news, we were alone in a steakhouse, for my
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Shoptalk
Shoptalk There's a Gibson Les Paul with a broken input jack lying belly-down on my workbench. In under fifteen minutes, I isolate the problem. I'm a surgeon unmasked, hunched over a muted patient, incapable of communicating anything, aside from static. Wiring the replacement in, my hand twitches—"Shit!" There's no time to waste apologizing, but I do it anyway. While I scrape away the solder, Ron buffs the back-plate clean, and when we're finished, there's no telling I slipped up. He asks about my father; I shake my head, turn Jethro Tull louder.
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My Mother's Only Sister
My Mother's Only Sister per Teresa Candito She had a laugh that spanned the continent; whether we were twirling parasols at the California Renaissance Faire to a man beating a drum, or she was zipping my mother into the wedding dress I'd almost ruined. She'd throw her head back like a lioness, bleached mane falling to her waist— in the end she lost it all, but she never let us see—and roar her joy into the room.
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First Funeral
First Funeral We found her lying silent in a side alley, blood still fresh, gleaming, and bursting bright behind the glittering black of her tiny eyes, stark red against grey plumage mottled with white feathers and specks of dirt. She flew once, or tried, but then she careened into well-ridden concrete, stretching the gap between a row of small houses and a large expanse of grass. A hundred feet farther and she would have fluttered unscathed into autumn sunlight. We discussed her in whispers, as children do, rocks pressing into the soft flesh of our knees, stroking the air instead of daring to touch fingers to the do
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resolved
resolved by dee oh, you beautiful, silly boy, who just hasn't learned a thing for all that they have taught you. you have to know by now that what you want is not always the thing that wants, too. i am not the pretty girl that you want to love and to wed and to dream about you. you should have figured by now that the best-tasting poison does the worst harm to you. find another pretty girl and hope she doesn't smash your heart like i want to. bon chance et au revoir
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Campus Vignettes
Campus Vignettes by dee 1. I met this girl who was like another part of myself, down to the laugh, and she told me, "Babe, you'd make the perfect mail-order bride for a buddy of mine." And we called him Husband, laughing. - 2. I like my coffee best cold; frozen, with whipped cream. I drink it even when it's 40 outside and walking to class freezes my nose. I would drink Jazzman's steamed apple cider, except I know it would burn my tongue. - 3. The first time I tried to comprehend one million, I was seven years old and the thought of it hurt my head. The first time I actually comprehended one million, I was eighteen y
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So I Lied...
So I Lied... by dee It's the innate part of being female, You know. The Laughing Crying Lying. Oh we will say anything to keep You here for just another second Minute Hour Dayweekmonthyear. No, I don't mean it's intentional Though of course it sometimes is But usually the words just slip out between Our lips Drinks The sheets. No, no, I won't get attached, I promise. Don't worry, I'll be fine. And of course, it's the truth At least For the howeverlong Between Hello and Goodbye.
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math equals poetry
math equals poetry by dee one can not say that math is less than poetic with phrases like z equals p bar minus lambda [sub zero] over the square root of lambda [sub zero] times one minus lambda [sub zero] over n or t(n minus one) equals x bar minus mu [sub zero] over s over the square root of n when calculated, assuming that n can be approximated by a standard normal distribution, using a significance level of alpha equal to zero point zero one, we regret to inform you that we have sufficient evidence to reject the null hypothesis, or in other words:   you have no statistical significance
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urban informant
urban informant by dee sometimes you have to let go…  tangled limbs and twisting sheets beneath  move to places reserved for sugarplums dancing  and i missed in the glare of sphering crystal  all the promises you ever might have made to see if there was anything worth… if anything's worth…  drowned out it's you  by the sound It's us.  of her breathing holding on to.
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Unsent
Unsent by dee Dearest she wrote then, changing her mind crossed lines over letters and started anew My darling— then, thinking better, she drew black scars over finely lined flesh beginning again with just his name in stark print upon the page I would hope this letter finds You are well and secure and Maybe even today smiling. As for myself, the memory Of your scent has brought Me near to madness or Something deeper even. The words you gave me have— As well aimed arrows may— Found pointed lodging within The confines of my breast. A simple sort of solace I have found in the pressing beat Of waves upon the shore And
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