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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VIII, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I

 
Poetry


The butcher handles the carcass it carves
J.D. Mitchell-Lumsden

 

I feel the beloved dismembering my limbs.

I see my arms dragging toward an empty horizon.

I feel you exile my fingers.

I see my fists as spots in the sun.

I feel my shoulders aching for me back.

 

 

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