While You Turn My Mother Into Your Handbag

You trade the sun for sudden moons – the reflections on your shovel transform into soil and otter. In the moment you kneel, speculations rise like glass from your skin. The shine of diamond – crows plant themselves in the place of violets blacken the earth. (That soft break from violet to violent) I learned…

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Carrie Oeding: Reading at 7pm at IU South Bend

Those Women Are Laughing Sorry Susanna, we’ve already worn the red dress tight, yes, without a slip, once with the zipper broken, to a wedding and to our birthday, where, yes, we ate the cake with our hands. We ate the dress. We wore it as if we had a secret, over and over and…

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The Girl Leaps into the Field as if to Burst Open like a Cloud

A valley of broken houses – inside a woman who collected rooms – plucked the extensions filled with accessories and moons. (expanding) Surrounded with the shadow of mirrors, she began to unwind her daughter – turned her inside-out pulled her hair through the head of a needle one strand at a time. The daughter watched….

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Unlike This Bed of Soft Tendrils

The first time you heard an ambulance, you stopped dreaming – stopped dreaming of such romantic inversions – like the hum of a whale, the cactus flower you turned into. A mother carries the last basket of apples from the garden and says they belong to you (like ribbon and twine) like music you never…

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