HOLLY DAY : The Flock
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KIM WELLIVER : How I Came to be Here
contemporary international poetry - for your reading pleasure,
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Filing for a Divorce?

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the seagulls find the dead child first, dig out stiff fingers from beneath wet sand and old cardboard. they land in flocks cackle angrily at each other, bright-colored beaks flashing in contrast to pale breast feathers black eyes. in the squabble, the girl's small body is uncovered, still recognizable despite decay. her mother slinks from the crowd blocks ears against the screams of the birds against the noise of the neighbors screaming out her daughter's name.
I have many things to write unto you but   I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian



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How I Came to be Here
This is how it was- The day; bright as a newly minted penny clean houses like white knuckles the sky tamed to a bright, pedestrian hue. Me, in my pale dress, the one the jealous, delicate hue of limes and matching pumps, standing on the smooth congress of sun-blanched sidewalk before all the smug, snug houses and their sweeps of manicured lawn; Seeking for the door that is my own, for the bolthole, the sanctuary that hides me safe as a nutmeat in its shell. I have been this way an hundred times before, taken the taxi cab from the doctor's cathartic office with my clutch of daisies and their thirteen virgin petals climbed from the cracked, gum and sweat scented seats handed over the crumpled green faces to the man behind the plexiglass, smoothed my skirt and scuttled up the short walk to my frontdoor. It has always been there, my door. Ready to open, as all doors must, upon the tucked and seedy refuse of my life, But somehow, I've gone all wrong. The day unfastens itself along seams before unguessed at, unzips to reveal this terrifying reality. The taxi is long gone, my handbag prim and tight, perched vaguely on the backseat like a matron, gone with it, not even a vaporish trail of exhaust remains to waver in the clean residential air. And the houses, so many houses, stretch along bright, neat streets as far as I can see. But none are mine. I spin in circles reading the blur of house-numbers as I turn, but circumstance remains shockingly unaltered, reflects in my orbital sockets, lays across the liquid lens of my disbelieving eyes. Encrypted, the world's become a cipher, and me without my Orphan Annie decoder ring, or a set of blueprints to mark the way, like those Arthur Murray feet my parents learned to Rumba by, not even the manic webbings of Rand McNally or a scatter of crumbs to follow, there is nothing to guide my way. And as I gaze at the faultless sky and the trim suburban houses, perfect in their geometry, a sort of dread overtakes me. The street signs give the lie to my obdurate bones: this is not my house, this is not my street, this is not my neighborhood, not my neighborhood NOT MY NEIGHBORHOOD. Not my city, or state... All around me ranked prettily, this gleaming, merciless normalcy, the doors all shut against me daisies like a scatter of snow at my feet, while I stand, exposed, frozen on the sidewalk, screaming.
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You Take Advantage of My Good MoodTOP The Flock  HOLLY DAY .we heartily welcome HOLLY DAY to poetryrepairs. DAY's poetry manifests the evil side of our nature. For HOLLY DAY, it seems, all our days are prickly
How I Came to be Here]BTM How I Came to be Here from poetryrepairs 01.05:060  KIM WELLIVER .
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