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“Pa,” “Land mark” and “Dark night”

Poetry by Patrick T. Reardon

Drive Chronicles Avenue straight out
of downtown for three miles to the
railroad bridge, empty as a Roman
ruin, turn right toward the spray-paint
chaos of the Grass Lake rocks, right
again onto Esther Road, to 135, and
there’s tight-wound Pa sitting on the
dusk porch while nervous fireflies,
trespassers, skitter, knowing nothing
else, around the maypole of his chair.

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“To Maryat, My Aunt,” “Cold Blue” and “River Stones”

Poetry by Mary Dean Lee

Outrageous, abundant woman,
spirit of fire, spirit of thunder.
You sang fugues to me as a child,

rocked me to sleep with your stories,
made grand entrances and exits
in a black Russian coat,

befriended the egg lady, painted
a black Christ crucifixion for her country church.
Your presents at Christmas were books

or piano music, giftwrapped in old newspaper.

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