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  November 2015
volume 12 number 2
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  contributing poets
  Sheikha A.
  M.I Akande
  Gwyndyn Alexander
  Prerna Bakshi
  Gary Beck
  Stefanie Bennett
  Deborah Edler Brown
  Jeffrey Bryant
  Terry Clark
  Robin Wyatt Dunn
  Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi
  Hedy Habra
  Dave Houston
  Trista Hurley-Waxali
  Robert S King
  Marie Lecrivain
  Emma Lee
  Ron Lucas
  Frank Mundo
  Scott Thomas Outlar
  Angel Uriel Perales
  James G Piatt
  Frank Praeger
  Hattie Quinn
  John D Robinson
  john saunders
  Apryl Skies
  Julia Stein
  Jonathan Taylor
  Amy Uyematsu
  J.T. Whitehead
  mailing list
Deborah Edler Brown
November 2015



photo by james barros

    Deborah Edler Brown is a Los Angeles-based poet, journalist, author, and teacher, with two poetry chapbooks, several writing awards, a non-fiction book, and a variety of journals and anthologies to her name. She was born in Brazil, raised in Pittsburgh, and has family on four continents. She learned to dance before she learned to walk, started writing in grade school, and is entirely in love with the magic and rhythm of words.



Taller Than the Moon

He holds his gin like an Irish poet,
which is to say, not well,
but with flourish.

Conversation slips into verse.
An idea lights a match to the alcohol in his brain;
blood rises. A flood of memories knits
a verbal coat of arms.

Occasionally, apologies tumble,
an awareness that the horses
are wild tonight, that the ride
may make you dizzy in the moonlight.

But he looms taller than the moon,
and the child in his eyes says
sweet bedtime prayers as he
pours another shot and
hands you his notebook.

He reads his words in time with
you, leaning over your shoulder,
as if two voices can make love
on one page.

He is a big man, easily brawling
except that words pour from him
not blood. The look of torment
warns you away, calls you forth
like a haunted house.

You hear shadows in the monologues.
Someone died, perhaps a girlfriend.
Suicide? Heroin? It's hard to tell.
But the water is deep and tumbling and
you know if you fall it will be dark and cold.

Still, he has not moved from your side.
He clings to your eyes like floating bark,
roping the moments together into a raft,
and it's another shot, another poem.

And you wonder,
were they all like this at 27?

copyright 2015 Deborah Edler Brown