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Aren't There Mornings by LYN LIFSHIN

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LYN LIFSHIN Aren't There Mornings after what seems like 17 days of rain, and the one you're with barking, a vicious dog over nothing and you're caught off guard, spew as many sewer words as he's slogged over you but it's still dinner and you have to sit, stony across the small table. Don't you want to just pack a small suitcase, get out, leave everything behind? Of course you can't, there's the baby, the poems, the closet of clothes you couldn't ever replace. How could you leave, your mother still young, is smiling at the rail road station about to start out for an adventure. When I think of my mother, smiling with a friend on a bench outside the Middlebury rail station, her black curls, teeth still white and know how different the years ahead will be I don't even let myself do more than barely notice a man or two with dark eyes on TV news, then go thru the same routine where I can try to hope the night's dream will not be a nightmare Copyright 2006, LYN LIFSHIN, all rights retained

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Drowning In Her Beauty by WENDY HAMMOND

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WENDY HAMMOND Drowning In Her Beauty A woman In curves of shadow And light Every move Like a wave bending Like cursive writing Curls in ringlets Her hair cascading Like fluid Down her back Deliciously In moonlit laps Her skin reflects Wet trails of tongue In delicate miles In softening sounds The hush, the depth A passionate breath Resonates among The rays of moon Dripping off Her nude body As he stands across The room Drowning in her beauty Copyright 2006, WENDY HAMMOND, all rights retained

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Nightmare, March 17 by LYN LIFSHIN

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LYN LIFSHIN Nightmare, March 17 Nothing, from the start hasn't been horrid. No wonder after the explosions of all day. But it gets worse. Terrorists have taken over the city, intent on killing blacks and Jews. In one part of town they're shooting. People I know are gunned down. It's all a matter of chance. I'm running in a street length dress but it makes no sense, I can't win. I escape this first slaughter, find myself in the arms of a dark man, a cross between Colin Powell and the man in a Woody Allen I saw two nights before. This isn't fun Copyright 2006, LYN LIFSHIN, all rights retained

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