POETRY COPY WORK

Kierstyn and Kaity

Week 3 Week of July 22 :
The Song Of Empedocles by Matthew Arnold
And you, ye stars, Who slowly begin to marshal, As of old, in the fields of heaven, Your distant, melancholy lines! Have you, too, survived yourselves? Are you, too, what I fear to become? You, too, once lived; You too moved joyfully Among august companions, In an older world, peopled by Gods, In a mightier order, The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons of Heaven. But now, ye kindle Your lonely, cold-shining lights, Unwilling lingerers In the heavenly wilderness, For a younger, ignoble world; And renew, by necessity, Night after night your courses, In echoing, unneared silence, Above a race you know not Uncaring and undelighted, Without friend and without home; Weary like us, though not Weary with our weariness.
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Growing Old by Matthew Arnold

What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Yes, but not for this alone. Is it to feel our strength Not our bloom only, but our strengthdecay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more weakly strung? Yes, this, and more! but not, Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dreamed 'twould be! 'Tis not to have our life Mellowed and softened as with sunset-glow, A golden day's decline! 'Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And heart profoundly stirred; And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, The years that are no more! It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young. It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain. It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel: Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotionnone. It islast stage of all When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves, To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blamed the living man.

Week 5 Week of August 5th Week 4 Week of July 29th:

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.

We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life. Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls. We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love's light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.

Week 7 Week of August 19th

Woman Work by Maya Angelou
I've got the children to tend The clothes to mend The floor to mop The food to shop Then the chicken to fry The baby to dry I got company to feed The garden to weed I've got shirts to press The tots to dress The can to be cut I gotta clean up this hut Then see about the sick And the cotton to pick. Shine on me, sunshine Rain on me, rain Fall softly, dewdrops And cool my brow again. Storm, blow me from here With your fiercest wind Let me float across the sky 'Til I can rest again. Fall gently, snowflakes Cover me with white Cold icy kisses and Let me rest tonight. Sun, rain, curving sky Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone Star shine, moon glow You're all that I can call my own.

Week 6 Week of August 12th

Touched by An Angel by Maya Angelou

Week 8 Week of August 12th

When You Come by Maya Angelou

When you come to me, unbidden, Beckoning me To long-ago rooms, Where memories lie. Offering me, as to a child, an attic, Gatherings of days too few. Baubles of stolen kisses. Trinkets of borrowed loves. Trunks of secret words, I CRY.

Some clichty folks don't know the facts, posin' and preenin' and puttin' on acts, stretchin' their backs. They move into condos up over the ranks, pawn their souls to the local banks. Buying big cars they can't afford, ridin' around town actin' bored. If they want to learn how to live life right they ought to study me on Saturday night. My job at the plant ain't the biggest bet, but I pay my bills and stay out of debt. I get my hair done for my own self's sake, so I don't have to pick and I don't have to rake. Take the church money out and head cross town to my friend girl's house where we plan our round. We meet our men and go to a joint where the music is blue and to the point. Folks write about me. They just can't see how I work all week at the factory. Then get spruced up and laugh and dance And turn away from worry with sassy glance. They accuse me of livin' from day to day, but who are they kiddin'? So are they. My life ain't heaven but it sure ain't hell. I'm not on top but I call it swell if I'm able to work and get paid right and have the luck to be Black on a Saturday night.

Week 9 Week of August 19th

The Lesson by Maya Angelou
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs, Rotting flesh and worms do Not convince me against The challenge. The years And cold defeat live deep in Lines along my face. They dull my eyes, yet I keep on dying, Because I love to live.

Week 10 Week of August 26th

Weekend Glory by Maya Angelou

Week 11 Week of September 2nd

Messy Room by Shel Silverstein

Whosever room this is should be ashamed! His underwear is hanging on the lamp. His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair, And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp. His workbook is wedged in the window, His sweater's been thrown on the floor. His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV, And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door. His books are all jammed in the closet, His vest has been left in the hall. A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed, And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall. Whosever room this is should be ashamed! Donald or Robert or Willie or-Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear, I knew it looked familiar!

There's a Polar Bear In our Frigidaire-He likes it 'cause it's cold in there. With his seat in the meat And his face in the fish And his big hairy paws In the buttery dish, He's nibbling the noodles, He's munching the rice, He's slurping the soda, He's licking the ice. And he lets out a roar If you open the door. And it gives me a scare To know he's in there-That Polary Bear In our Fridgitydaire.

Week 12 Week of September 9th

Whatif by Shel Silverstein
Last night, while I lay thinking here, some Whatifs crawled inside my ear and pranced and partied all night long and sang their same old Whatif song: Whatif I'm dumb in school? Whatif they've closed the swimming pool? Whatif I get beat up? Whatif there's poison in my cup? Whatif I start to cry? Whatif I get sick and die? Whatif I flunk that test? Whatif green hair grows on my chest? Whatif nobody likes me? Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me? Whatif I don't grow talle? Whatif my head starts getting smaller? Whatif the fish won't bite? Whatif the wind tears up my kite? Whatif they start a war? Whatif my parents get divorced? Whatif the bus is late? Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight? Whatif I tear my pants? Whatif I never learn to dance? Everything seems well, and then the nighttime Whatifs strike again!

Week 14 Week of September 23rd

Picture Puzzle Piece by Shel Silverstein
One picture puzzle piece Lyin' on the sidewalk, One picture puzzle piece Soakin' in the rain. It might be a button of blue On the coat of the woman Who lived in a shoe. It might be a magical bean, Or a fold in the red Velvet robe of a queen. It might be the one little bite Of the apple her stepmother Gave to Snow White. It might be the veil of a bride Or a bottle with some evil genie inside. It might be a small tuft of hair On the big bouncy belly Of Bobo the Bear. It might be a bit of the cloak Of the Witch of the West As she melted to smoke. It might be a shadowy trace Of a tear that runs down an angel's face. Nothing has more possibilities Than one old wet picture puzzle piece.

Week 13 Week of September 15th

Bear In There by Shel Silverstein

Week 15 Week of September 30th

Cloony The Clown by Shel Silverstein

I'll tell you the story of Cloony the Clown Who worked in a circus that came through town. His shoes were too big and his hat was too small, But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all. He had a trombone to play loud silly tunes, He had a green dog and a thousand balloons. He was floppy and sloppy and skinny and tall, But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all. And every time he did a trick, Everyone felt a little sick. And every time he told a joke, Folks sighed as if their hearts were broke. And every time he lost a shoe, Everyone looked awfully blue. And every time he stood on his head, Everyone screamed, "Go back to bed!" And every time he made a leap, Everybody fell asleep. And every time he ate his tie, Everyone began to cry. And Cloony could not make any money Simply because he was not funny. One day he said, "I'll tell this town How it feels to be an unfunny clown." And he told them all why he looked so sad, And he told them all why he felt so bad. He told of Pain and Rain and Cold, He told of Darkness in his soul, And after he finished his tale of woe, Did everyone cry? Oh no, no, no, They laughed until they shook the trees With "Hah-Hah-Hahs" and "Hee-Hee-Hees." They laughed with howls and yowls and shrieks, They laughed all day, they laughed all week, They laughed until they had a fit, They laughed until their jackets split. The laughter spread for miles around To every city, every town, Over mountains, 'cross the sea, From Saint Tropez to Mun San Nee. And soon the whole world rang with laughter, Lasting till forever after, While Cloony stood in the circus tent, With his head drooped low and his shoulders bent. And he said,"THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT I'M FUNNY JUST BY ACCIDENT." And while the world laughed outside. Cloony the Clown sat down and cried.

Week 16 Week of October 7th

A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow-You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand-How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep--while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?

I SAW thee on thy bridal day When a burning blush came o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee: And in thine eye a kindling light (Whatever it might be) Was all on Earth my aching sight Of Loveliness could see. That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame As such it well may pass Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame In the breast of him, alas! Who saw thee on that bridal day, When that deep blush would come o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee.

Week 19 Week of October 28th

Alone by Edgar Allan Poe
From childhood's hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then- in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life- was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.

Week 17 Week of October 14th

Romance by Edgar Allan Poe
Romance, who loves to nod and sing With drowsy head and folded wing Among the green leaves as they shake Far down within some shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet Hath beenmost familiar bird Taught me my alphabet to say, To lisp my very earliest word While in the wild wood I did lie, A childwith a most knowing eye. Of late, eternal condor years So shake the very Heaven on high With tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares Through gazing on the unquiet sky; And when an hour with calmer wings Its down upon my spirit flings, That little time with lyre and rhyme To while awayforbidden things My heart would feel to be a crime Unless it trembled with the strings.

Week 18 Week of October 21

Song by Edgar Allan Poe

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Week 20 Week of November 4th

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

Week 21 Week of November 11th

Sonnet 14 - If thou must love me, let it be for nought by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say 'I love her for her smileher lookher way Of speaking gently,for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day' For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee,and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

Week 22 Week of November 18th

Sonnet 10 - Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright, Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed: And love is fire. And when I say at need I love thee . . . mark! . . . I love theein thy sight I stand transfigured, glorified aright, With conscience of the new rays that proceed Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures Who love God, God accepts while loving so. And what I feel, across the inferior features Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show How that great work of Love enhances Nature's.

Week 23 Week of January 13th

Happy the Lab'rer by Jane Austen

Happy the lab'rer in his Sunday clothes! In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn'd hose, Andhat upon his head, to church he goes; As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws A glance upon the ample cabbage rose That, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose, He envies not the gayest London beaux. In church he takes his seat among the rows, Pays to the place the reverence he owes, Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows, Lists to the sermon in a softening doze, And rouses joyous at the welcome close.

Week 24 Week of January 20th

I've a Pain in my Head by Jane Austen
'I've a pain in my head' Said the suffering Beckford; To her Doctor so dread. 'Oh! what shall I take for't?' Said this Doctor so dread Whose name it was Newnham. 'For this pain in your head Ah! What can you do Ma'am?' Said Miss Beckford, 'Suppose If you think there's no risk, I take a good Dose Of calomel brisk.'-'What a praise worthy Notion.' Replied Mr. Newnham. 'You shall have such a potion And so will I too Ma'am.'

Week 25 Week of January 27th

Miss Lloyd has now went to Miss Green by Jane Austen
Miss Lloyd has now sent to Miss Green, As, on opening the box, may be seen, Some years of a Black Ploughman's Gauze, To be made up directly, because Miss Lloyd must in mourning appear For the death of a Relative dear-Miss Lloyd must expect to receive This license to mourn and to grieve, Complete, ere the end of the week-It is better to write than to speak

Week 26 Week of February 3rd

Fairy Song by Louisa May Alcott

The moonlight fades from flower and rose And the stars dim one by one; The tale is told, the song is sung, And the Fairy feast is done. The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers, And sings to them, soft and low. The early birds erelong will wake: 'T is time for the Elves to go. O'er the sleeping earth we silently pass, Unseen by mortal eye, And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float Through the quiet moonlit sky;-For the stars' soft eyes alone may see, And the flowers alone may know, The feasts we hold, the tales we tell; So't is time for the Elves to go. From bird, and blossom, and bee, We learn the lessons they teach; And seek, by kindly deeds, to win A loving friend in each. And though unseen on earth we dwell, Sweet voices whisper low, And gentle hearts most joyously greet The Elves where'er they go. When next we meet in the Fairy dell, May the silver moon's soft light Shine then on faces gay as now, And Elfin hearts as light. Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky With sunlight soon shall glow. The morning star shall light us home: Farewell! for the Elves must go.

From The Short Story A Christmas Dream, And How It Came True by Louisa May Alcott
From our happy home Through the world we roam One week in all the year, Making winter spring With the joy we bring For Christmas-tide is here. Now the eastern star Shines from afar To light the poorest home; Hearts warmer grow, Gifts freely flow, For Christmas-tide has come. Now gay trees rise Before young eyes, Abloom with tempting cheer; Blithe voices sing, And blithe bells ring, For Christmas-tide is here. Oh, happy chime, Oh, blessed time, That draws us all so near! "Welcome, dear day," All creatures say, For Christmas-tide is here.

Week 28 Week of February 17th

From The Short Story What The Swallows Did by Louisa May Alcott
Swallow, swallow, neighbor swallow, Starting on your autumn flight, Pause a moment at my window, Twitter softly your good-night; For the summer days are over, All your duties are well done, And the happy homes you builded Have grown empty, one by one. Swallow, swallow, neighbor swallow, Are you ready for your flight? Are all the feather cloaks completed? Are the little caps all right? Are the young wings strong and steady For the journey through the sky? Come again in early spring-time; And till then, good-by, good-by!

Week 27 Week of February 10th

Week 29 Week of February 24th

Lily-Bell and Thistledown Song I by Louisa May Alcott

Awake! Awake! for the earliest gleam Of golden sunlight shines On the rippling waves, that brightly flow Beneath the flowering vines. Awake! Awake! for the low, sweet chant Of the wild-birds' morning hymn Comes floating by on the fragrant air, Through the forest cool and dim; Then spread each wing, And work, and sing, Through the long, bright sunny hours; O'er the pleasant earth We journey forth, For a day among the flowers. Awake! Awake! for the summer wind Hath bidden the blossoms unclose, Hath opened the violet's soft blue eye, And awakened the sleeping rose. And lightly they wave on their slender stems Fragrant, and fresh, and fair, Waiting for us, as we singing come To gather our honey-dew there. Then spread each wing, And work, and sing, Through the long, bright sunny hours; O'er the pleasant earth We journey forth, For a day among the flowers.

had to spend only one day drifting and reeling, her brown eyes beseeching. Then she was tenderly lifted, laid on a table, praised, petted and set free.

Week 31 Week of March 10th

Lesson 1 by Julie Hill Alger
At least I've learned this much: Life doesn't have to be all poetry and roses. Life can be bus rides, gritty sidewalks, electric bills, dishwashing, chapped lips, dull stubby pencils with the erasers chewed off, cheap radios played too loud, the rank smell of stale coffee yet still glow with the inner fire of an opal, still taste like honey.

Week 32 Week of March 17th

Opening the Geode by Julie Hill Alger
When the molten earth seethed in its whirling cauldron nobody watched the pot from a tall wooden stool set out in windy space beyond flame's reach; and when the spattering mush steamed, gurgled, boiled over, mounded up in smoking hills no giant mixing spoon smoothed out the lumps and bubbles as the pottage cooled to rock. No kitchen timer ticked precisely the eons required to fill the gritty pits slowly, drop by drop with layers of glassy salts, agate, opal, quartz; no listening ear inclined over the silicon mold to hear the chink of crystals rising geometrically facet upon facet in the airless dark. No hand lifted the stony lid to add light, the finishing touch, and no guest cried Ah! how well the recipe turned out until this millennium, today, at my table.

Week 30 Week of March 3rd

Death in the Family by Julie Hill Alger
They call it stroke. Two we loved were stunned by that same blow of cudgel or axe to the brow. Lost on the earth they left our circle broken. One spent five months falling from our grasp mute, her grace, wit, beauty erased. Her green eyes gazed at us as if asking, as if aware, as if hers. One night she slipped away; machinery of mercy brought her back to die more slowly. At long last she escaped. Our collie dog fared better. A lesser creature, she

Week 33 Week of March 24th

Pictures of Home by Julie Hill Alger

In the red-roofed stucco house of my childhood, the dining room was screened off by folding doors with small glass panes. Our neighbors the Bertins, who barely escaped Hitler, often joined us at table. One night their daughter said, In Vienna our dining room had doors like these. For a moment, we all sat quite still. And when Nath Nong, who has to live in Massachusetts now, saw a picture of green Cambodian fields she said, My father have animal like this, name krebey English? I told her, Water buffalo. She said, Very very good animal. She put her finger on the picture of the water buffalo and spoke its Khmer name once more. So today, when someone (my exhusband) sends me a shiny picture of a church in Santa Cruz that lost its steeple in the recent earthquake there's no reason at all for my throat to ache at the sight of a Pacific-blue sky and an old church three thousand miles away, because if I can only save enough money I can go back there any time and stay as long as I want.

Hymn by Sarah Flower Adams

He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower, Alike they're needful for the flower: And joys and tears alike are sent To give the soul fit nourishment. As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done! Can loving children e'er reprove With murmurs whom they trust and love? Creator! I would ever be A trusting, loving child to thee: As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done! Oh, ne'er will I at life repine: Enough that thou hast made it mine. When falls the shadow cold of death I yet will sing, with parting breath, As comes to me or shade or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done!

Week 36 Week of April 21st

Love by Sarah Flower Adams
O Love! thou makest all things even In earth or heaven; Finding thy way through prison-bars Up to the stars; Or, true to the Almighty plan, That out of dust created man, Thou lookest in a grave,--to see Thine immortality!

Week 37 Week of April 28th

Nearer, my God, to Thee. by Sarah Flower Adams
Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me: Still all my song shall be Nearer, my God! to Thee, Nearer to Thee. Though, like the wanderer, The sun gone down, Darkness be over me, My rest a stone; Yet in my dreams I'd be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee. Then let the way appear Steps unto heaven; All that Thou sendest me In mercy given: Angels to beckon me Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee. Then with my waking thoughts Bright with Thy praise, Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise; So by my woes to be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee. Or if on joyful wing, Cleaving the sky, Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upward I fly: Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee.

Week 34 Week of March 31st

He Sendeth Sun, He Sendeth Shower by Sarah Flower Adams
He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower, Alike they're needful for the flower: And joys and tears alike are sent To give the soul fit nourishment. As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done! Can loving children e'er reprove With murmurs whom they trust and love? Creator! I would ever be A trusting, loving child to thee: As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done! Oh, ne'er will I at life repine: Enough that thou hast made it mine. When falls the shadow cold of death I yet will sing, with parting breath, As comes to me or shade or sun, Father! thy will, not mine, be done!

Week 35 Week of April 14

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Week 38 Week of May 5th

In the 70s, I Confused Macram and Macabre by

Kelli Russell Agodon
I. I wanted the macabre plant holder hanging in Janet and Chrissys apartment. My friend said her cousin tried to kill himself

Of a Forgetful Sea by Kelli Russell Agodon

Sometimes, I forget the sun sinking into ocean. Desert is only a handful of sand held by my daughter. In her palm, she holds small creatures, tracks an ant, a flea moving over each grain. She brings them to places she thinks are safe: an island of driftwood, the knot of a blackberry bush, a continent of grass. Fire ants carried on sticks, potato bugs scooped into the crease of a newspaper. She tries to help them before the patterns of tides reach their lives. She knows about families who fold together like hands, a horizon of tanks moving forward. Here war is only newsprint. How easy it is not to think about it as we sleep beneath our quiet sky, slip ourselves into foam, neglectful waves appearing endless.

by putting his head through the patterns of in his mothers spiderplant hanger, but the hook broke from the ceiling and he fell knocking over their lava lamp, their 8-track player. His brother almost died a week later when he became tangled in the milfoil at Echo Lake. I said it could have been a very macram summer for that family. II. When I looked outside for sticks to make a Gods Eye to hang my bedroom wall, I found a mouse flattened, its white spine stretching past its tail. And a few feet away from that, a dead bird with an open chest. Its veins wrapped tightly together. This neighborhood with its macram details crushed into the street. I wanted my mother to console me, remind me that sometimes we escape. But when I returned to my house it was empty, except for the macabre owl my mother had almost finished, its body left on the kitchen table, while she ran out to buy more beads.

Week 39 Week of May 19th

A Mermaid Questions God by Kelli Russell Agodon
As a girl, she hated the grain of anything on her fins. Now she is part fire ant, part centipede. Where dunes stretch into pathways, arteries appear. Her blood pressure is temperature plus wind speed. Where religion is a thousand miles of coastline, she is familiar with moon size, with tide changes. She wears the cream of waves like a vestment, knows undertow is imaginary, not something to pray to. Now her questions involve fairytales, begin in a garden and lead to hands painted on a chapel's ceiling. She wants to hold the ribbon grass, the shadow of angels across the shore. She steals a Bible from the Seashore Inn; she will trust it only if it floats.

Week 38 Week of May 12th