July/Aug 2015 • Vol. XXXVII No. 4 Poetry |

On Lightening

Not sure whether this fire-rimmed moon, bowled rose of hunger is due to solar radiation or aging. This day, the nineteenth of July, a wild hare leaps into a fire a thousand times. I am not yet forty years old. My hair grows to shoulder length and longer than my shoulder blades under a cassia on the moon of alabaster halls lined with mochi cakes, red quinoa, radish seeds popping their claret skins. From this day on, I no longer wish to go without sole almondine. In a many-roomed mansion with a one-eyed monocle, I will look back on this day as one where I decided to live lightly      this summer on. My hair is lighter. It lightens in the darkness of firs.

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Karen An-hwei Lee



Karen An-hwei Lee lives in San Diego, where she serves in the university administration at Point Loma Nazarene University. Her recent collections are Phyla of Joy (Tupelo 2012) and a novel, Sonata in K (Ellipsis 2017).

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On Apophasis

By Karen An-hwei Lee

Not sure whether this fire-rimmed moon, bowled rose of hunger is due to solar radiation or aging. This day, the nineteenth of July, a wild hare leaps into a fire […]

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