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by Robert Penn Warren
I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming.
It rose from coniferous darkness， past gray jags
Of mercilessness， past whiteness， into the gloaming
Of dream-spectral light above the lazy purity of snow-snags.
There——west——were the Tetons. Snow-peaks would soon be
In dark profile to break constellations. Beyond what height
Hangs now the black speck? Beyond what range will gold eyes see
New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light?
Or， having tasted that atmosphere's thinness， does it
Hang motionless in dying vision before
It knows it will accept the mortal limit，
And swing into the great circular downwardness that will restore
The breath of earth? Of rock? Of rot? Of other such
Items， and the darkness of whatever dream we clutch?
Morning in the Burned House
by Margaret Atwood
In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
You understand： there is no house， there is no breakfast，
yet here I am.
The spoon which was melted scrapes against
the bowl which was melted also.
No one else is around.
Where have they gone to， brother and sister，
mother and father? Off along the shore，
perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers，
their dishes piled beside the sink，
which is beside the woodstove
with its grate and sooty kettle，
every detail clear，
tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless，
the lake is blue， the forest watchful.
In the east a bank of cloud
rises up silently like dark bread.
I can see the swirls in the oilcloth，
I can see the flaws in the glass，
those flares where the sun hits them.
I can't see my own arms and legs
or know if this is a trap or blessing，
finding myself back here， where everything
in this house has long been over，
kettle and mirror， spoon and bowl，
including my own body，
including the body I had then，
including the body I have now
as I sit at this morning table， alone and happy，
bare child's feet on the scorched floorboards
(I can almost see)
in my burning clothes， the thin green shorts
and grubby yellow T-shirt
holding my cindery， non-existent，
radiant flesh. Incandescent.
by Myronn Hardy
She visits me when the lights are out，
when the sun is loving another part of the world.
She passes through the net I sleep under like
a cloud its holes are easily navigable.
Her buzzing tells me that she doesn't want my legs arms cheeks or chest.
She craves adventure wanting to travel through
the dark canal the spiraling cave where earthquakes are wind.
Her prize is in sight the gelatinous mass controlling this machine.
How beautiful she thinks it is her needle mouth filling with water.
Her children will know physics geometry will understand
English Spanish perhaps Portuguese.
They will be haunted their whole lives by trees guns and a boom that won't cease.
She cries before drinking the fluid is salty-sweet.
Oh if my mother had done this for me I would have lived
Mostly Mick Jagger
by Catie Rosemurgy
Thank god he stuck his tongue out.
When I was twelve I was in danger
of taking my body seriously.
I thought the ache in my nipple was priceless.
I thought I should stay very still
and compare it to a button，
a china saucer，
a flash in a car side-mirror，
so I could name the ache either big or little，
then keep it forever. He blew no one a kiss，
then turned into a maw.
After I saw him， when a wish moved in my pants.
I nurtured it. I stalked around my room
kicking my feet up just like him， making
a big deal of my lips. I was my own big boy.
I wouldn't admit it then，
but be definitely cocks his hip
as if he is his own little girl.
People ask me——I make up interviews
while I brush my teeth——"So， what do you remember best
about your childhood?" I say
mostly the drive toward Chicago.
Feeling as if I'm being slowly pressed against the skyline.
Hoping to break a window.
Mostly quick handfuls of boys' skin.
Summer twilights that took forever to get rid of.
Mostly Mick Jagger.
How do I explain my hungry stare?
My Friday night spent changing clothes?
My love for travel? I rewind the way he says "now"
with so much roof of the mouth.
I rewind until I get a clear image of myself：
I'm telling the joke he taught me
about my body. My mouth is stretched open
so I don't laugh. My hands are pretending
to have just discovered my own face.
My name is written out in metal studs
across my little pink jumper.
I've got a mirror and a good idea
of the way I want my face to look.
When I glance sideways my smile should twitch
as if a funny picture of me is taped up
inside the corner of my eye.
A picture where my hair is combed over each shoulder，
my breasts are well-supported， and my teeth barely show.
A picture where I'm trying hard to say "beautiful."
He always says "This is my skinny rib cage，
my one， two chest hairs."
That's all he ever says.
Think of a bird with no feathers
or think of a hundred lips bruising every inch of his skin.
There are no pictures of him hoping
he said the right thing