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Technical writing is like poetry.
Everyone wants to write it. No one wants to read it.
—Valerie (Poulin) Bean
Hands pull the lifeless
organ from my chest
its muscular rhythm still for 17 minutes
without a beat, after he smacked
A silver pendant drawn against my neck;
its metal mouth open. Rain pellets tap
the window, like impatient fingertips.
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this year, i resolve to…
listen to leonard cohen recite his poem “fingerprints” while we drink red needles in the arizona dusk
chat with margaret atwood over lunch about her creative writing process; i will call her “peggy”
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She drops to her knees, carrots and beets pulled from the garden moments earlier spill from her arms, cheek against soil, next to the memory of home.
My mother, bless her wooden heart loves my daughter Allie. I write those words the straight, blue lines of my notebook. At times like this I need to see words on paper so that I feel their effects. Mother is coming for a visit today.