Jan/Feb 2017 • Vol. XXXIX No. 1 Poetry |

Beautiful Secret Something

I hold my problem. My jaw aches with it. Things end, with no regard for me. This is the way. I bake. I mend. The doe lies on the wooded hillside. Pretend as I may, she isn't me. I wake each night for an hour to grieve. I think to cut something exquisitefrom the pain, and carry just that, leave the rest in a heap. Come morning, I understand: part of the mystery has gone deeper;part of the mystery is in plain sight. 

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Bounded

By Mary Ann Samyn

I hold my problem. My jaw aches with it. Things end, with no regard for me. This is the way. I bake. I mend. The doe lies on the wooded […]

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