The geraniums in the mountains, exuberance
when everything else is counted, rationed,
invite guests to stop for a tumbler of ţuică.
An old woman waves from her rocking chair
she donned black for her first departed
and before the three years of mourning were up
another passed away so she never broke out
her green scarf again. Planted in rusted
tomato cans, geraniums spread their leaves
like chubby palms, scalloped light cutting spades
of x-rayed dust into the rooms furnished
with rustic hutches in the corners, wood
fitting intimately into wood with no nails.
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Issue 53
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Editor's Note
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Poetry
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Fiction
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Book Review
- David Rigsbee reviews Midnight Lantern: New And Selected Poems
by Tess Gallagher
- David Rigsbee reviews Midnight Lantern: New And Selected Poems