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ELISAVIETTA RITCHIE The Old Bridge, After the War The bridge was not badly bombed. Corpses caught in the piles but the span again is safe. Bicycles, cars, even trucks clang across the planks. Women hurry with buckets, children, clothes to wash. Two mongrels who escaped the cauldron steal down the slope to drink. The river glistens and gives back facades of gutted structures. From the ruined spire, cathedral bells skip like stones across water. The arches of the bridge are joined by their watery halves and once more on the river banks the circles are cleated. [published in Silver Quill (Second Prize, 1995 David Ross Memorial Poetry competition); reprinted in The Arc of the Storm, Signal Books, copyright 1998 Elisavietta Ritchie] appearing here with permission of the poet. poetryrepairs.com invites your essay on poetry, or on a poet or poets, and, also, essays on all things related to poetry, its theory and its practice. Or, simply comment on the poems here at poetryrepairs.com ©2007 poetryREpairs (poetry on this site is published under first electronic publication rights; all rights revert to or are retained by the author/poet of the works published). page design ©2007 by poetryrepairs and JohnHorvathJr. |
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JULIE KING Coast MM.01:003 You were just a boy at our courthouse wedding, doing vodka shots in the backseat with my sister, I a girl wishing for an accident, just a dented fender, enough damage to put off the vows for another day. Or year. What the hell were we thinking? The mortgage isn't paying its monthly coupons. The driveway doesn't empty itself of snow. Even the cat's fur won't grow inward to avert shedding. When your job as a business professor takes you to conferences to one of the coasts, I'm happy as a pig in shit. What the hell am I thinking? I could tear up those coupons, toss them on that snowy driveway, pack the cat tightly, and haul ass to the opposite coast in a car with a fender shiny and smooth and perfect enough to resist weathering of any kind. |
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