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by Beth Houston





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Her outgrown closet then too cramped for rage,
She learned escape, screamed silence to crisp air,
Trees, river filling with leaves....Fall’s last flare
She found jeweled in one rose’s lacey cage
Of frost; she stooped, examined this new stage
So sharp its flame burned through her icy glare;
Her jungle anger, all its spit and swear,
Cooled to wit and jewels they call her Ice Age.
Even now, her last day blessed with a flood
Of roses, only one closed flower will do,
One last bud clinging to color like blood
Flowing from its thorn, her old heart’s issue,
Love held so deep, so cold, that stillborn bud
In ice, that wound’s child clutching one fist, two.

 Postmodern Postmortum


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