Winter 2007 • Vol. XXIX No. 1 Poetry |

Naval Weapons Station

Today the labyrinth's bullhorn sounds like a foghorn. Seagulls sail over forests of ropeless masts. The river laps fallen NO SWIMMING signs shot full of rust by duck hunters or vagrant kids. Some say the government stockpiles nuclear missiles at the weapons station, blame one-eyed croakers and clawless crabs on radiation in the silt. Naval speedboats chase fishermen from the sub dock. Your idea was to build a labyrinth from nothing but starlight, to lose yourself with only a frayed storyline to find your way back. At our last lunch you told me your father was a suicide. I wanted to tell you the Minotaur was a will o' the wisp squatting over spent fuel rods and dirty bombs. When the magnolia leaves wagged their glossy tongues, and mockingbirds mocked the Easter thunder, an Arctic clipper floundered into clouds from the Gulf. Whoever named storms should have named that one for you. Cars flew through bank windows. Oaks tore up pipes, power lines sizzling in their crowns. At d

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When I Was Beautiful

By Averill Curdy

Today the labyrinth's bullhorn sounds like a foghorn. Seagulls sail over forests of ropeless masts. The river laps fallen NO SWIMMING signs shot full of rust by duck hunters or […]

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