Note from the Editors

 

   SEEING RED 

    ENDU(RED) ADMI(RED)
    DESI(RED) WONDE(RED)
    RUMO(RED) ADO(RED)
    ENAMO(RED) INSPI(RED)
    DISCOVE(RED) SAC(RED)
    HUNGE(RED) WONDE(RED)
    EXPLO(RED) FEATU(RED)
    AUTHO(RED) SEA(RED)
    DA(RED) UNCENSO(RED)
    SOA(RED) ADVENTU(RED)

 

 

    


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All Saints


Today they would be deciding which of the cattle
to butcher, then take the bare carcass to the bone fire,

the better to divine what journey to take, whom to marry,
where to live, and whether the grain stored up

would be enough to last the winter.  At the cusp
of what is passing, I dreamt of this day,

of something emptying over long cold months. 
Earlier and darker, I wake to the last wasps

bemusing the house.  Yesterday the neighbor’s lush garden
was barer.  I don’t see her, but her hand’s evident

in the turned beds, the spent plants taken up,
already in a slow cold rot. This morning I pull

rough dregs from the bottom of my cup,
which means, mainly, that I’ve ground

the coffee wrong again, but I drink it anyway,
like taking a little earth into my mouth,

letting the melt of days take with it a measure of
dirt to inure me to the gray sky turning,

turning with clouds: to the hours, dwindling,
cropped and gleaned—


Lisa Bickmore's work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Quarterly West, Caketrain, Hunger Mountain, Tar River Poetry, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and Split Rock Review. She teaches writing in Salt Lake City.


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