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The ReturnBy Sofiul Azam QuailBellMagazine.com for Ngũgĩ wa Thiong
I Perhaps I’ll come back like a salmon fish to that same estuary again; I may wish to see my newcomers swim on that old stream. Or perhaps I’ll stay away like a statue hewn out of a huge rock, far away from my grandparents’ mountain, on another longitude, alone under another sky. But the return doesn’t mean the return of my body, something more, beyond five senses for sure. Who knows if distance is just steam in a lid-locked pressure cooker? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Goodnight MoonWords by Scott Laudati QuailBellMagazine.com the kids read goodnight moon to mom before they went to sleep and after the final goodnight mom realized the children’s book she’d spent a year writing would never be that good. was her ex right? was she stupid? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Taken InWords by Anders Carlson-Wee Image by Gretchen Gales @GGalesQuailBell QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This was previously published in 32 Poems. The fear of growing older less than the feeling of failing to do so. Before first light you grope The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Home Sweet Home beyond Milky WayNestled in the wings of night After the pearl gem sets in heaven I climb to the roof of the earth To gaze at the star. Gazing at the star, To witness the coming century, the city of the giant Blossom like a silver Garden. The Music from that mysterious Galaxy Soothes my soul like the rain. In the light, let my form alight Back to my home, beyond the Milky Way. 9.9.2015 The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Corruptible FlyWords by Daniela Buccilli QuailBellMagazine.com It is not the hundred maggots
on the burger that offend me, so much as the sea of their thousand wills: a looping canon of ideas, The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Weekend of the Bird ApocalypseWords by Daniela Buccilli QuailBellMagazine.com Friday, my husband chases the leapfrog flights of baby birds. He lays each one back in the twig dish of a nest. He scoops up one runt from under a forsythia branch when the first saved thing breaks out to crash on the driveway rocks. He could be at this saving all day and no one would live. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
What Could Have Happened on a Spring Afternoon?By Sofiul Azam QuailBellMagazine.com I should have kissed you on a spring afternoon when there was a gust of wind ruffling your unbound hair. Your eyes didn’t have the stony stare, and the sunlight fell on you —streaking through smudged, south-facing windowpanes-- to add up to the beauty of your unpainted face. I was looking at you and anxiously thinking of you. Were you thinking of what I was thinking about? You teasingly squeezed orange peels into my eyes. I suspect your chest was heaving too much like waves with the anticipation of what would follow next. Many things The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Eternal Returns To Oz
Once I stuttered over wheat fields gone to junk and dust, trying to explain myself And climbed back into my bed before the peacocks started crowing So that no one would know I was gone The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Like CattleWords by Daniela Buccilli QuailBellMagazine.com It’s a light blue, bumpy world where the boot of Italy is a broken stick and the US spreads out in largesse. We find Libya on the globe at our knees. My grandfather spins what sounds hollow, a papier-mâché toy. I am 16. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The DusterBy Ruth Z. Deming QuailBellMagazine.com He was invisible. He made a point of arriving at his job an hour before the museum opened. They trusted him with the keys.
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