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untitled by Mimi Ferebee a metal log it is, rushing, gliding, skating through time, she is a generation of memories— yet keeps such wonders to herself, not even whispering to passengers about the black-strapped boy on the tracks, his heart pounding, telling him to hop to the side, but adrenaline robs his senses, shakes him […]

Writing a Poem is a Lot Like Giving a Massage

Writing a Poem is a Lot Like Giving a Massage by Christine Reilly Your fingers, miniscule purple whales who beach themselves when your (ambi)dexterity gets too complicated for the poems lodged in your throat.  My bedroom: the steam room and yours: the sauna.  So many others claimed to care; swarms and swarms of people outside. […]