Summer 2007 • Vol. XXIX No. 3 Poetry |

Yard Sale

We'll have one. Come October, anticipating The move. We're headed west. Or east Depending where the money takes us. The word Slave is never uttered here. Production And processing of chickens as food. That's what We do. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Right now, I make piles. One to keep, one to sell, one Maybe. Calculating the weight of the books, The difference between hardbound and paperback Volumes printed before my time, after his. The attic Fan might fetch fifty dollars, the vanity Twenty. The body tells the head to un-mind what will be Left behind: earth, bagged and piled four high. The water finally Trickled down, two weeks after they said It would. By then it was too late for the oregano. The basil Cropped just the same, the rosemary too: it might yet Gain a taste for chicken if cooked right. If The crust's spiced a certain way and the center Runs of juices—life juices of my poor distant cousin. We keep comfortably apart, he on that side Healing, and I here listing pos

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I, Moderate

By Claudia Grinnell

We'll have one. Come October, anticipating The move. We're headed west. Or east Depending where the money takes us. The word Slave is never uttered here. Production And processing of […]

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