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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
  mailing list
Claire Williams
April 2014



photo by mauricio alejandro ramos

    Since Claire first read Anne of Green Gables at the age of seven she knew she wanted to be a writer. She walked around the world, narrating her life in the third person, a habit, which, it turns out, is difficult to break. Unlike Anne, Claire often makes the same mistake twice, which is how she came to pursue a career in creative writing and performance art. She would like to brew you, whatever you wish, but preferably a storm, or a cup of coffee.



September Song

at your birthday dinner, you are twenty four, we eat at the dead fish. i eat dead
fish. on the menu are other dead. there are some live salads. they live in my
belly as i go to tie up the strings of my day. searching for a thread running
through a river, i'm hot, it's hot, my belly is full, i'm walking and braiding time.

come, there is much to be done. & what a time to believe in anything.
these are words that occur often in my brain but have not been laid
out in the pipework of letters. sometimes my friend carries a great
sadness towards me and i am flooded with it, valley and trunks and all.
it seems there is nothing to be done but grow thirstier. but seeming is

not believing. i read on august thirtieth to bite through all my problems.
when god gives hard bread he gives sharp teeth. when i bite my tongue
it is demons dancing. when he bites me it's a longing towards marrow. every
thing does not want to be bitten, not even the moon. but lo, with what grace, eaten
and eaten again by that blazing darkness. i will grow, i will grow, i will drown.

copyright 2014 Claire Williams