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Distance, a
Surprise in the Road
by Amanda Auchter
Behind me,
my mother’s house
sinks into a slump of yard
framed by Pyracantha,
its sting of scarlet firethorn.
She waves from the bay window,
body lit up
in a swirl of yellow lamp-glare,
flicker of television against the glass.
Earlier, she leans in
to kiss me at the back door.
I stand inside her pink smell,
rub of her skin
against my cheek, fingers
curl into mine.
I feel the proximity
of death inside her palms,
that subtle tremor of the body
unfamiliar with itself,
how one moment, a hand flips through
albums, gives me photographs
and the next, it struggles to unwrap
a teabag from its paper sleeve.
I find nothing familiar
in our goodbye, as if
I have suddenly come upon her age –
our distance – this surprise in the road,
a deer illuminated in
headlights.
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Chrysanthemum (Flame)
by Teresa Franks
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