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  April 2014
volume 11 number 1
-table of contents-
 
  home   (archived)
 
  contributing poets
  Scott Alexander
  Shawn Aveningo
  Jonathan Beale
  Jack G. Bowman
  Betsy Burke
  Matt Burns
  Shibani Chattopadhyay
  Rachel Coventry
  Tyler Dupuis
  Allison Grayhurst
  John Grochalski
  Hedy Habra
  Samantha Henderson
  Augustus Invictus
  Natalie Itzhaki
  Scott Jacobson
  Alex Johnson
  Mikel K
  Craig Kurtz
  Phillip Larrea
  N.M. Leepsa
  Anthony Magistrale
  Brendan McCormack
  Christopher Mulrooney
  Philip ONeil
  Ebi Robert
  Walter Ruhlmann
  April Salzano
  Jake Sheff
  Rishan Singh
  Julia Stein
  Allen Taylor
  Paul Tristram
  Wanda Vanhoy Smith
  Claire Walker
  Viola Weinberg
  Claire Williams
 
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Betsy Burke
April 2014
   

 

bio


photo by mauricio alejandro ramos

    Betsy Burke studies literature at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro where she is earning her BA in English. She is a writer and diligent reader, finding life is easier to understand when looking through the experience of a page. Her poetry can be found in several literary magazines, including The Coraddi, Willows Wept Review, Dead Snakes, The Bastille, and The Write Room.
bbeespoetry@gmail.com

   

 

July

July

1

There was a time she made
escape the tunnels and concrete—
timed subway trains run like oil

Hot hot
as ice on her two front teeth,
always
too sensitive for apples,
too
white for the crisp, broken
downed bodies crawling
sticky through tunneled walls.
She would say,
“Say! It’s another day in paradise.”

2

A shoe claps Shalom! Shalom! in Yiddish New York
City, New England, but old American’s
fiddle with rooks and Queens
and China Town is a desert
of swinging chickens,
which way is up? Which way is down-
town where the poets live comfortably—
a pen and a cracker, some Wednesday afternoon delight,
and also at night.

3

What is love,
love, love
Lennon and linen,
Shalom and bed inns—
Roger once said that from the springing speaker
of a cop car—how does one Roger some-
thing? There
was a time she’d laugh with herself—
now it is a roll of the eyes—it is a rubbing shoulders
with strangers—it is a time to go home with the city
all over crimson
and clover, over and over.

copyright 2013 Betsy Burke