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Carrying Your Ashes Home

by Barbara Brooks Old tires are buried in a playground, or tied by rope to a tree limb over the river just waiting for a swing.  My tires were worn but lasted long enough to take you to the vet. Filled with begonias, some are painted white, jagged teeth like the ventricular tachycardia on your […]

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Working In The Garden

by Barbara Brooks Roots, land-locked lobsters, pull free from the soil. Legs intertwine and bodies are two layers deep. Clods of dirt drip loose and drop into the bed. Weeds, winter’s barnacles, cling to the fragile tendrils. Nestled into new spaces, green antennae catch the breeze. In the spring, they will become iris.

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Clay Vessel

by Barbara Brooks Fire’s ember tendered by moss, exposed to air, extinguished by tears. In a Room, I dance with you in light shafts, before drifting to shadow. The door cracks, a current sucks me to dark. Cold air settles, taking me to the floor. I am snagged by a crevice between boards.

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