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BURNING HOUSE PRESS

Not For Profit/For Prophecy

Author

agerobertson

Two Poems by Theresa Sullivan

 

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Ruminate

 

When nights steal in I paint

a house filling with water.

 

 I make the exit transparent,

front door gray and ghostly beneath

 

seawater creeping past the baseboards,

sloshing over the table,

Continue reading “Two Poems by Theresa Sullivan”

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Learning to write again – Megan Merchant

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Learning to write again.

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Continue reading “Learning to write again – Megan Merchant”

Three Poems by Judith Roney

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I See My House, My Field

after Marianne Boruch

 

My son lives there now, in his winter

like a husky dog burrows in snow.

 

Most of the rooms (yes, I can see them from Florida)

are muted by cold, and the furniture

 

is still the maple my mother bought the year

she had her affair with my father.

 

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A Series of Poems by Cynthia Cruz

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DURAS (THE MUTE)

“Writing also means not speaking. Keeping silent.” M.D.,Writing.

 MD is mute. She throws her voice into the text and there, her voice, resides. There, in the book, we hear her screams, we hear her weeping. But alone, in her giant white mansion, she speaks to no one. She paces, endlessly, the only sound, the sound of flies and death emanating from within the cracked walls.

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Two Poems by Lucy Whitehead

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Stasis

I know how to be a beetle stranded on its back,

a moth pinned flat inside a frame, a wildflower

pressed between the pages of a book, a petroglyph,

a fragment of my former self, a rock, a photograph.

Continue reading “Two Poems by Lucy Whitehead”

Quiet//Rot by Sylvia Warren

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Quiet//Rot

 

It is never really about thinness. It is certainly not about fashion, or fitting in, or models. It is facile to call it perfectionism, because it is not striving for a perfect body. It is an act of erasure, but also of tactility and isolation.  That is what I miss.

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Two Poems by Nicodemus Nicoludis

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Untitled [Elegy For the Memory of a Relationship]

 

It isn’t the space

the closeness of knowing

somebody so well

we hear their heartbeat

inside ours,

or the aperture of life

squinting one morning at a time,

but I freeze right there,

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Weathering – F.E. Clark

F. E. Clark_Daily Painting_15th April 2013

Weathering

 

She lies down in the snow,

kissing hoar frost pinpoints of silver light.

Slides into hibernation,

shedding faces as she sleeps.

Fusion, fused, frozen,

turn, turning, turned.

Off.

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Two Poems by Kristina Bicher

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Lazarus & the Real Boy

 

1. HE WHO IS NOW CALLED LAZARUS

was born a plain boy we

christened STUART

and thus it went

 

             first his brain yellowed then grew

             claws and we

             were sore afraid

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