HOLLY DAY : The Flock
MAX MARTIN : lover in shadows
ANDRENA ZAWINSKI : Hot Flashes
POETRYREPAIRS v11.09:055
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The Flock lover in shadows Hot Flashes  
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HOLLY DAY
The Flock
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.
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The Flock lover in shadows Hot Flashes  
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MAX MARTIN
lover in shadows
a distant lover haunts me like the wind my distant lover a distant lover wronged me held me tied me scared me we were a tattered rose fallen upon the floor what to say to a vanquished lover who stole my heart what to say
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Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato



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The Flock lover in shadows Hot Flashes  
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ANDRENA ZAWINSKI
Hot Flashes
Aunt Mary always had hot flashes that made her cry at weddings, at wakes, as soon as her foot crossed the threshold. At her skirt, the moment her hand squeezed mine and our heart lines pressed close, my own face flushed crimson with tears. Aunt Mary cried when cats crossed her path, at ladders too near doors: bad luck, bad luck, she cried. Summers at picnics, she tore at her blouse in the heat, blazed: hot flashes, hot flashes. She cried all the way in the car ride back from the fortune teller in Ohio who said, it¹s a spell - it¹s a curse. She cried at the doctor¹s, big with a change-of-life baby, bad nerves high strung, a flair for the dramatic that ran-in-the-family, but jumpy as if her own shadow could be stepped upon, pulled off, forever lost. Aunt Mary still cries, mixing up this face with that name the same as always, but doesn¹t understand the new word for it: alzheimer¹s. Aunt Mary, who can spring to her feet on all the quirky little steps she remembers of the Charleston, waving trophies in each hand, rattles walls with gibberish now, explosive as nebulae rising from mill furnaces she once stoked. And I, I cry, bawl, blubber, have a knack for the boohoo, too. I cry, hot, in the middle of winter just watching the moon ride low like a locket against the flushed breast of night; and when a spark of star catches my eye, I see: in me her blood runs red.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.05: 055
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HOLLY DAY : The Flock
MAX MARTIN : lover in shadows
ANDRENA ZAWINSKI : Hot Flashes

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