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Kristina England
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Writer, Biker, Sailor and More to Come
Writer, Biker, Sailor and More to Come

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From Volume 38: "I always dream about money: or the mediocre happy poem" by Jacqueline Morrill
I always dream about money: or the mediocre happy poem By Jacqueline Morrill She answers the door almost naked But for leopard print
undies The asshole of an orange
cat stuffed under her right arm His sleeping head cradled
against her bare breast And a plat...
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From Volume 38: "Watching the Film About Robert Bly" by James K. Zimmerman
Watching the Film About Robert Bly By James K. Zimmerman hair white as the snows he remembers, sky he writes about nail-bitten hands pushing rocks uphill, furrowed still flutter like
sparrows when the wheat is ripe gray eyes full as a
morning fog in Minneso...
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From Volume 38: "Altamira" by Harry Gordon
Altamira By  Harry Gordon After the Fiesta de San Ferm í n we drove up from Pamplona to Laredo and slept together that night on the beach where the ebb is so extreme that in the morning it looked as though the ocean had disappeared. I can still see you lyin...
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From Volume 38: "Suburban Housewife" by David S. Macpherson
SUBURBAN HOUSEWIFE By David S. Macpherson When I was a suburban housewife in the 1970s, before everything changed
so drastically, you could play with your kids and still smoke cigarettes. You
didn’t want your kids to smoke, but back then, we believed in the...
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From Volume 38: "Holiday" by Stephen Thomas Roberts
HOLIDAY By Stephen Thomas Roberts It seems indulgent to eat outside beneath an awning and breakfast late. The passersby must be tardy— late for work or school, or else are idlers— but either way the thought amuses. How pleasant to sip the juice of exotic fr...
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From Volume 37: A poem by Leone Scanlon
MY SEVENTY-SIXTH YEAR By Leone Scanlon In Chagall’s kitchen a red floor, a cake, and a cut melon on a red table, pink roses for her birthday, her feet not quite touching the floor, he, floating above and around, head curved like a swan’s for a kiss, like th...
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From Volume 37: A poem by Karen Sharpe
When Worlds Collide By Karen Sharpe — after Edvard Munch’s painting , Girls Picking Apples, from the collection of Scofield Thayer Innocence, you are but deceit twined in green a shackle of softness in a girl’s thigh and chin an obsession with a torrid itch...
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From Volume 37: A poem by Marsha Truman Cooper
ROADSIDE ASSISTANCE By Marsha Truman Cooper “The perfect gift is always hidden too well.” —Pat Conroy At the scene of my accident a tow truck driver tried to decide whether my car was drivable. His phone vibrated. He leaned against my smoking wreck, listeni...
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From Volume 37: A poem by Judith Robbins
Worcester Tornado of 1953.  Credit: WCVB Boston WORCESTER, MASS., JUNE 9, 1953 By Judith Robbins The thought of it, the sight of it, the everliving fright of it does not die from year to year but returns, written in memory with a dark pen that marks black t...
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From Volume 37: A poem by Colin Dekeersgieter
THE ANTHOLOGISTS By Colin Dekeersgieter You are roiling in the newest star, a constant measure of the law of fading. This fissure of the night, toggled by Doppler, arpeggiates the ocean to sway the suzerain moon until she gives the sheet over to the bright ...
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