Our featured poem...
Names Better Left Unsaid
by Lynn Doiron
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You will not stay put, will you, but
heave out
the clots holding love
Then she was
the den and the lair, a hive
honeycombed white,
a slice
of pale bread gone dry.
So those planets kept spinning
like plates struck
on sticks
until the stickmaster
died.
Who bound up
your hands, but she
with pine-needle weavings
and sap,
thunder gone red
to poke holes in rivers
we never ran,
never quilled, yet
these words crisscross the water so loud
on heron-clear dawns
on kingfisher days,
egret noons,
and loon evenings of Saturn: you
will not,
you will not stay put
and my feet tire of dancing
your graves flat again
and the sod tires of rethatching itself
where you heave,
where you heave yourselves
up and through.
I could handle you, my love.
It is the pair of you
in a long twilight's plum,
in dawn's apricot,
noon's lemon,
midnight's luminous orange
when her orgasms
splinter the perfumes
of places we have lain
and the skin
I owned
I never did -
the eye opens too far
and acid comets
fall in.
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