DAVID FRASER : The Day I Go
JANET I. BUCK : Sea Change
MEGAN WEBSTER : I Want to Go in an Air-Conditioned Box
POETRYREPAIRS v13.11:121
contemporary international poetry - for your reading pleasure,
poetry from new and established poets and essays on writing


All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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David Fraser lives in Nanoose Bay, on Vancouver Island. He is the founder and editor of Ascent Aspirations Magazine, www.ascentaspirations.ca since 1997. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Rocksalt, An Anthology of Contemporary BC Poetry. He has published five collections of poetry; Going to the Well, 2004, Running Down the Wind, 2007, No Way Easy, 2010, Caught in My Throat, 2011 and, Paper Boats, 2012 and a collection of short fiction, Dark Side of the Billboard, 2006
The Day I Go Sea Change I Want to Go in an Air-Conditioned Box  

DAVID FRASER
The Day I Go
  The day I go, I want to lie in the hot sun with its heat upon my skin, naked maybe, as I came, but if it is a day of rain, make it warm with the taste of summer on its lips and let it kiss me as if I'd never sinned, wash me as I was washed so many years ago when I came screaming from the womb.
POETRYREPAIRS 13.11:121
I have many things to write unto you but   I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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The Day I Go Sea Change I Want to Go in an Air-Conditioned Box  


JANET I. BUCK 
Sea Change
"Dear Dad: We are still at sea. The remainder of our port visits have all been cancelled. We have spent every day since the attacks going back and forth within imaginary boxes drawn in the ocean, standing high-security watches, trying to make the best of it ... Love, S" The Lutjen and the USS Winston Churchill side-by-side, deck to deck. The sign just reads: We Stand By You. Suddenly the buckled knees. Is this that that that Germany who roughly fifty years ago ground swastikas in human hides, marched children into rooms of gas? I still taste salt upon my lips. Hate's stranger has a different face, a softer chin. Maybe, just maybe, my history books lied. I'm flipping through photos of crushed towers and busy cranes, writing to my New York friends to see if e-mail bounces back with "no such address from the grave." Weak as a lisp from dry stream, questioning all river beds. Every plane that passes in the mangy fog leaves boot prints on a quaking floor. I wonder, Do cobwebs come down if we reach? They flew our flag, its colors former foreigners, saluted in the crusty waves. Second finger to the brow. Suddenly the virile thorn grows fruit and drops its summer on a hungry lawn. Rows and rows of all dress blues applied as if a sky exists. Not a dry eye on the rocky bridge. Mucus of the past dissolved, not wiped away, but broken some like pebbles under trucks of grief. copyright JANET I. BUCK
POETRYREPAIRS 13.11: 121
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

guidelines INDEX



The Day I Go Sea Change I Want to Go in an Air-Conditioned Box  

MEGAN WEBSTER 
I Want to Go in an Air-Conditioned Box 
I Want to Go in an Air-Conditioned Box with a bird of paradise on my breast, he cries, one torrid August afternoon when I greet him at the gate. I start planning, find that Perennial Rose, the florist two blocks down, carries birds of paradise all year round, Heavenly Bearing, the local undertakers, don't chortle at his request for an air-conditioned box. Our customers' comfort is paramount, they claim. Fax in his measurements now. We'll special-order an air-conditioned coffin with a lifetime guarantee -- be ready when the time comes.
POETRYREPAIRS 13.11: 121
DAVID FRASER : The Day I Go
JANET I. BUCK : Sea Change
MEGAN WEBSTER : I Want to Go in an Air-Conditioned Box


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