GAIL ENTREKIN : Making Dinner
ANNALYNN HAMMOND : The Last Great Place
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Hygieia (detail from Medicine)
Hygieia (detail...
Gustav Klimt
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Making Dinner Melted The Last Great Place

Making Dinner

† † † 
(For Katy, Age 11, newly diagnosed)
She lifts her shirt, wedges it between her elbow and her smooth chest, scrutinizes her belly for a brown space between lavender and yellow bruises. Long-bone fingers that pluck her small harp quick and light move slowly from spot to spot fleshing out pain and sorrow for the sweetness of her sweet child's unprotected underside, soft. Two fingers pinch the little flap while the other hand brings the plastic cylinder designed to hide the needle she has filled with insulin up against the skin. †Deep breath. Slow deep breath, and the click. Setting the table, stirring the eggs, I do not feel the sharp hurt, the slow ache as she presses the plunger, slowly, one centimeter, rest, one centimeter, rest, the kind of child who takes her Band- Aid off one filament of sticky at a time. I do not feel the tender swellings of her dozens of tiny wounds and I must not weep. I serve the eggs. 'Making Dinner' previously appeared in Freshwater, 2005
I have many things to write unto you but I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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Making Dinner Melted The Last Great Place

yr tophat skull or spider holograms snoozy had history written in henna polynesian because guilt is an eye patch third eye, flatten yr eyes twin saxophones laminate flowers amy has melted cuz she's an eagle or eternal regression mirror i will be dreaming god, what's her name third eye flatten twin saxophones i will be dreaming spider holograms she's an eagle regression mirror she is an eagle i will be dreaming amy has melted twin saxophones guilt is an eye patch written in henna yr eyes laminate flowers henna patch eyes: flowers, eagle, mirror dreaming saxophones.
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

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Making Dinner Melted The Last Great Place

The Last Great Place
I hope to die in the silver mountains of Japan, to lie down with the red-crowned crane, under the cold gray eyes of snow macaques, ice clattering in the branches of evergreens, ghost breath of Yuki-Onna. Or maybe in the montane rainforests of Tobago, curled in the laced arms of a strangler fig, giving the hungry soil a drink of my body, to emerge years later as a bromeliad behind a waterfall. Or perhaps in the sands of the Mohave desert, the dry heat wearing my skin to a coiled husk that sidewinds across windy dunes, catches on the spine of a cactus. Or maybe in the great Northwoods, on a bed of leaf and loam, deer snouts nudging my curves, coyotes chewing my flesh, dropping it like raspberries on the granite ledges of the hillside. I will probably die under cool green sheets and fluorescent lights, the purr of electric fans. So I must travel to my graves while Iím alive, practice dying on every mountain, in every creek bed, on every shore, breathe the island air, the prairie grass, and then close my eyes and die in every place Iíve never been.
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GAIL ENTREKIN : Making Dinner
ANNALYNN HAMMOND : The Last Great Place

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