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by on Nov 1, 2011 in Poetry | 0 comments

By Bryan Thao Worra Long the nail iron in What’s cleft from time, the body seasoning. Clamber, clatter, silence seeker. Reek of all the morrows who round us ring! I know well both sides our craven slab So lustily devouring We clay scrabbles, we clawed things. Tombs are my books. Bones...

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Swallowing the Moon

by on Nov 1, 2011 in Poetry | 1 comment

By Bryan Thao Worra Some see an anonymous man or a thief of sheep. Some a goddess like Hina-i-ka-malama or Chang’e. Perhaps a princess of rabbits or a magician’s jealous head, Her face painted with bells. Cain. A criminal from the Book of Numbers. A cook. A witch. A home for the dead...

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