ImogenCunninghamTheUnmadeBed.jpgmidwinter is always somewhat bleak and while some of the work here is bound to be reflective of that, we hope to find the heart of the season as well. Remember that this is the part of the year that leads to Spring and the budding of the trees and rising of the sap and all things new when we all emerge from our heavy winter clothes and women, at last, can show off their shapes in billowing Spring dresses and men can walk about, heads turning, just as we, likewise, turn to catch and hold your eye. So with Winter there is hope, hope that soon, Spring will come and everything comes to bloom - all will come soon to fruition... what could be better than that?  

sadi ranson-polizzotti


a hard rain

The soft rain streaks the windshield.
Makes of it a lens through which the world is a vivid, unclear watercolor.
Today the further shore is further.

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after absolution

I tell myself it’s not a sin. You say no. Non.

Never emphasis on word, sealed with a kiss.

How serious then are we, church returned, absolved.

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Nothing changed.

I hardly expected,

though part of me

wished. Sentimental

to the death, and I do

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all that you are

You are old enough to feel it. You are old enough to fear it. You are far away from home. You are too old to yearn, yet you do. You are too wise for heartache, yet you ache. You are too hardened to heartbreak, yet you break.

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because she was spice

A woman young and olive-skinned pours milk over her thighs. You are transfixed. Caught in the raw moment of desire. A fire I did not light. This fascination, you say, I’ve acquired, no doubt it comes from you. Your own red-faced transgression.

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Bechet & Saalah

Bechet tempts, takes what

was mine, was ours. Friday’s

demon, ogre, dark. You move

to the wood, Saalah, dragging

his prey. The day is yours.

Intended for lovers true.

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black dream

Me now in my blacks pouding the avenue with my ballet-slippered feet.
They lead me nowhere through the deluge –
-    A widow lost in the city; an out of place orphan on the page.
One swipe of the red-pencil and I am erased.

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black forest clock

It was a raw winter. My, your heart bloody and bruised,

we had done the same to others; leaving them to deal with the crisis of

betrayal, the awfulness of hurt, of a seeping wound that would not heal.

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change of taste

A woman, young and olive skinned, pours milk over her thighs and you are transfixed. Caught in the moment of raw desire like Bunuel. A fire i did not light. This fascination you say i won't

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I am raw Clipped to the bone. An animal declawed, defenseless.

You leave me here like this, knowing I can take it.

You tell yourself this - it makes the going away easier.

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confession, lent

I have confessed, impatient penitent.

I waited for the curtain to draw back.

For the litany to begin.

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confidence in the New Year (& other bullshit)

Even in the New Year, you usher in the old.

The what I so did not want to expect.

Yet here I am; there it is,

and all around the hoarfrost ground crackles, pisses –

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day's end

Days stretch out before me, an endless horizon.

I know that strictly this is impossible.

that one day, like everyone, I will die.
I live, wait for the seizure charges, a mare, nostrils flaring.

Why my own grim reaper has come to take me home!

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girl, new york city

All blatant and beautiful, she walks city streets

Speaks only sotto voce, mezzo forte, awakened

By her mother who says, You are Gods favorite.

His special chosen one. Year she will believe this,

Even then after Dad’s disappearance; twelve-years-old

And never once did she cry, the affair at last over. The

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I’m not the one you thought
oh no you figured it out you
thought but ho, you were
wrong to think, such thoughts
they steer off course,
a car I once crashed
but on purpose, a field,the cows
look curiously on and I sat
head to the wheel and sang
my mourning song. the long-

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in a name

It is Sarah. God-given Biblical.

Linden-leafed and green, Your eyes tell me it is so.

God given Anglican presumed Jewish,

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interupted song | partita no. 2

He tells me it’s a mixed state, that’s all. I wonder mixed of what . eye spy - evander.jpg

What mixed with what? Elation, depression. A fight to the last.

Neither of us knowing which will win; there is just hope.

Compassion rules the moment; compulsion rules the day.

Impulsivity is everywhere. I am off the hook.

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like raymond chandler

It’s like a Raymond Chandler poem – full of suburban grief, not grief, yet with some cowboy edge. The bad boy of Wellesley ; the bad boy of New Canaan .

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Lot Number 6 - 8 : Property

It is the blue hour. The quiet before the dawn. No sound save for coo of dove, a few birds, perhaps, the early crow. I sit beneath my

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mad swirl of mania - 10,000 volts.

It’s a tilt a twirl tea-cup. A ride of thrills and nausea.

the salmon-colored pills will help with this.

With these mild aphasias, these tilting and off-balance manias.

You cut a swath through the thicket.

A route to guide through the good night.

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