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II: At the Gate of Women


Poem / P.J. Nights
( Maine )

Art / Aimea Saul
( Portland, Oregon )


Of wives and mothers

The audibility of my thoughts 
is evident only to you, thank god 

centesimos dropped in a tin cup, the cry 
of a wandering albatross. Within the herd, 

the rumbling bellies of cows keep time 
to Easter bells, force us gladly 

towards this anti-evangelical asylum, 
this space we coinhabit. Here, we value

the red burn of an astronomers candle 
over the reassurance of pre-programming, 

know the centuries will shed light 
on every exhaustion, every purple 

noncommittal nightmare. At the gate of women, 
I could do without, but youve offered 

a jaws atheism, an ids beach, 
the open palm of myself. 

Next - III: Lost Notes of Music / Andrea Potos - Doug Beasley


Current Issue - Spring Supplement 2004