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BURNING HOUSE PRESS

Not For Profit/For Prophecy

Author

agerobertson

Featured Photo Artist – stephanie roberts

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All month long, the gorgeous photography has been contributed by the talented artist, stephanie roberts. Her photographs were just as integral to this month’s theme and overall aesthetic as the work of the writers we were so privileged to read.  stephanie’s photos have been inspiring me for quite some time and it was an honor to have her brilliant images set the tone for The Mind As Prison & Asylum. Thank you, stephanie!

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[Closing Spells] by Jane Fleming

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[closing spells]

 

My mother said that I should bathe in oatmeal

So I do

thick baths gray with powder, sticking in clumps of snow

and I dip in so that I no longer itch

or bleed

Continue reading “[Closing Spells] by Jane Fleming”

Two Poems by Heather Quinn

cof

PTSD

fine body hairs twitch

preparing for something

past feel of foil clenched

 between gnashed teeth

tungsten singed to hip socket

powered by whipsaws

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Two Poems by Wale Ayinla

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revenge

 

the way hatred crawls from the strands

to the sole, in sync with the soft hum of

owls, empties me to a satisfaction.

 

it is dark here, and the night is competing

with my heart. whose version of darkness

is darker?

 

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A Broken Mirror – Kylie Supski

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A Broken Mirror

 

DNA smeared

over a broken

mirror

 

there was no

blood

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Two Poems by Brynn Downing

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CONSUMED

Rhode Island, 1892

For Mercy Lena Brown

 

I.
After you die, Lena, you will freeze

until the neighbors unearth you

open your chest, your breasts

 

split to either side. In your heart:

blood–frozen. Your lungs, shaped like wings,

will yield once, collapse, and won’t rise.

 

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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,

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Learning to write again – Megan Merchant

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Learning to write again.

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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.

 

Continue reading “Three Poems by Judith Roney”

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