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There are ways to know the mother  will leave. She no longer cooks with Morton salt though pressures rise like aspirations and the soup still tastes of tears.  You often find her buried ...

Signs of Impending Matriarchal Departure or Fair? by Alafia Nicole Sessions

LAR Online, Poetry

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How Would You Like It The indignity at the end. I tell myself to tell you. No one would want this though no one is asked. Times he was left naked on the too-high bed;  not allowed to eat, or forced ...

2 Poems by Mary Ann Samyn

LAR Online, Poetry

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Gravity.  [noun]   the natural attraction between physical bodies,  especially when one of the bodies is celestial. This is how it begins: gravity has, for a brief ...

Natural Attraction by B.A. Van Sise

LAR Online, Poetry

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Because the men keep going missing and we like to wear the pants. We lookgood in tweed and love a long smoke sorting things out before a dark fire.She’s been dead seven decades but her ghost sense burns better than ...

Portrait of Myself as Watson, my Great Grandmother, Sherlock Holmes by Michelle Bitting

LAR Online, Poetry

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You were placed like wings are placed  as if they’ll never be needed to leave with  but then you were born  and each time I unwrap your diaper  I consider every ...

Mother Nothing by Elizabeth Metzger

LAR Online, Poetry

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Sundays were always the green of aquarium glass, the smell of waxed duck pinching the house. The television splintering  the room like the dry season; outside, dogs’ perpetual barking. My ...

KLANG, 2003 by Lyn Li Che

LAR Online, Poetry

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They did not know—the first flowers in space, planted by a hand years removed from another, already the bones losing mass, density another word for dependent, the way oblong seeds in ...

Zinnias by Sarah Fawn Montgomery

LAR Online, Poetry

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Hyacinth: killed by a stone discus, by accident or out of anger, thrown by his lover. And always after one murder or another  a great power wonders, how shall I commemorate the act? Already the boy is ...

Hyacinth by Lee Upton

LAR Online, Poetry

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If they’re communing with themselves, bewitched by caverned basement shadows candlelit and musk of brick, old rags, damp empty sleeves mother hung to dry, how peevishly should we scoff? No father clumps to ...

Triplets at a Ouija Board, 1951 by Adam Tavel

LAR Online, Poetry

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Recent Posts

  • To rest her feet, to feel like one of the girls by Hannah Grieco
  • Lures by Adam Vines Review by Leona Sevick
  • Signs of Impending Matriarchal Departure or Fair? by Alafia Nicole Sessions
  • Monkey Flower by Mira Skalkottas
  • Poems by Gunnar Translated by Klein Voorhees
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