Summer 2010 • Vol. XXXII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 2010 |

The Unlucky May

The night before, having kept you guessing, your younger daughter arrived and took over the kitchen in a house that was still new and comfortless, not yet a place but becoming---something, perhaps our future: which seemed enormous, then, like the night sky I found myself looking up at from the unfinished bed under the may-tree. And why was I crying? I was still young. I didn't understand that our lives aren't universal; mostly what we see belongs in other stories. I'd thought a wedding would be like the spatter of blossom against the night sky; that it would be our voices streaming out of the lit windows. Instead, here I was--- standing in my predecessor's garden, repeating I want to go home. I want to go home.

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On Listening

By Fiona Sampson

The night before, having kept you guessing, your younger daughter arrived and took over the kitchen in a house that was still new and comfortless, not yet a place but […]

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