With one leg not two, he’s a great little hopper.
He has to be. Our knowledge can only be finite says Popper,
a philosopher of whom this little black bopper
has possibly not heard, not even a whisper,
but Karl has a point, a legitimate view:
the bird can’t imagine hopping on two.
From the path to the compost, the rail to the bin,
he’s perfected the art of hopping on one
a hop left then right, like a one-legged trooper
adroitly avoiding coming a cropper,
backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards:
thirteen ways of hopping for a blackbird.
When fate deals you a bad hand or rather a bad leg or rather a non-existent leg it may seem improper
but as mentioned our knowledge can only be finite says Popper:
so when fate deals you an unfair cop,
what can you do but live in hop?…
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Grandmother woke me at 1 a.m. “Eliot, the house is on fire,” she said, looking all around wild-eyed, one hand clutching at the frayed lace collar of her nightgown as if flames might engulf us at any moment. She braced herself against her walker, steadying all but her withered cheeks and sagging arms, which wobbled as she bobbed her head about the room looking for a way out.
“Everything’s fine,” I reassured her as I sat up on a cot near her bedside and took her by an arm, hoping to calm her – but mostly hoping to go back to sleep.
She reared back and pulled her arm away. “You think I lived this long and don’t know a house fire when I see one?”…
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– Paloma Sierra
Author’s Note: Life often exposes us to violent storms, but like the seed of the mangrove tree, we can find a home wherever we drift.…
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I don’t know flowers
so I couldn’t tell you their names
but I passed a cluster of them
on the way to work:
they were light purple long thin buds.
maybe some kind of lavender?
I don’t know
but since the published poets
were always banging on about flowers
I thought, what the hell
let’s see what all the fuss is about
and I bent down
to have a sniff:
I didn’t like them.…
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“Pretty face,” the guard says.
I wipe away some sweat-lined dirt, smile.
“Occupation?”
“Nurse.”
He squints, doubts.
“Drugs?”
I shake my head. He doesn’t want what I have – the sleeping pills, marijuana. He wants antibiotics. He has the disease. His hat and collar hide it. What do I care? We are all going to get sick, had all gotten sick, will always be sick.
“Papers?”
I hand him the water damaged passbook.
If he opens it, he’ll mostly see blossoms and blotches. On one page, there may be enough stamp to reveal a cross. The picture will show just shoulders and a neck. The face is white space.
The train sounds its whistle, bell. Then the wheels clickety, clickety, clack.…
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You used to leave your shoes beside the doorway, letting the season drip off onto the carpet. Now, you walk them off wherever you please, one foot out, one foot in. Sometimes, you grab the wrong shoe out the door, so you walk around mis-matched. You used to bring home honey on Saturdays. A treat from nature. You used to cradle my body to your chest and kiss the back of my earlobe. You used to pull quarters from behind my ears. It’s magic. Now, my ears are un- kissed and magicless. You used to try and bake cupcakes, but you never read the directions, so they were always very dry, and burnt. We would sit with a can of icing and a bottle of wine, eating the cupcakes.…
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It should not be so difficult to fall madly in love
My parents met on the day of their wedding, my mother with hands covered in henna and dressed in a red sari, and my father in a white sherwani and a small, nervous smile. I came soon after, during a time where the house was still quiet and foreign, during a time where “we” didn’t exist and it was just “me and mom” and “me and dad.” I could watch my parents learn to love each other. I could observe careless hands turn gentle, harsh voices turn soft, quick glances turn long.
My brother was born five years after me. In some ways, he’s luckier than I am. He was raised by hearts swollen with love, laughter caressing his skin like kisses.…
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