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Poetry-Winter 2007-Page 3


Dedicated to the One I Thought I Loved

by Brianne Killoran

We say "forever" and the word
passes between us as transparent
and empty as ghosts

Since who owns forever
like a roll of peppermints gathering
lint in one's pockets

And what if we could dwindle away even the next forty years,
to fester the kind of love that curdles
and hardens into

Silent, stewing aggravation, looming heavily at a dinner table,
ready to topple with any false word or notion:

I, annoyed by the way your jaw clicks
as you chew, how you suck
at steak stings caught in your teeth

You, annoyed at our bedroom sheets -
cold and neatly pressed -
Annoyed at my hanging skin,
so much more crinkled and worn

So perhaps when our bellies claim
to be full of love and "forever"s and "always"s
and other such words to bring to the mind
blossoming flowers and hands ever-locked,
and warm, crumpled sheets,

They are only full of dinner and indigestion
and the tums gathering lint in my pocket
is the cure.

Broken Home

The night they declared their separation,
the house did not collapse;

the four walls did not bend
like trees braced in a gale,
the windows did not shatter
nor windowpanes snap
like fallen twigs.

Not even when the cooled air sucked
through the kitchen window to snatch
up his last spoken promise

and drag it drowning
in the thunder's clamor

Not even when the roof throbbed
with raindrops and the sky opened
to throw the first thread
of lightning

Not even when the wind whirled
to reel the promise back
inside his mouth
to repeat once more,
now to his children,
more tenderly:

"This isn't going to be forever."

not everything passes over
like a summer storm.

Bio: Since obtaining her BFA in Creative Writing at Roger Williams University,
Brianne Killoran has been employed in various library settings.  Among many
programming responsibilities, she teaches young writers groups and works
with local newspapers and websites to generate publishing opportunities for
children.  Her work has been published by SunShine Press, and has been
accepted by Right Hand Pointing, Ocean Magazine, and The Larcom Review.



by Ann Marie-Spittle

The white, soft, lacework falls softly in the night

As slumbering lay bodies in their bed

Up and up they interlock and make a carpet fit for any God

The cat sits moaning on the icy step

Calling to be let into the warmth

The morning entrances brightly

Echoing of the new laid carpet of pureness

And squirrels dance around the floor

Looking for what they hid not long ago

Then the chatter of the children reaches them

Scurry off to hide in white edged trees

Out into the virgin snow the children scatter

Leaving their marks among the trees

Soon the icy warrior is built

A battle of the fittest soon commences

Shouts of “Not fair” reaches mother

she reacts with a broad smile on her face

Then in for hot toast and a cup of cocoa

Warmth in front of a fire bright

And soon the day is over, but the nighttimes

Bring a new layer to winter’s carpet laying

Wiping the board clean for another day

Bio: Ann Marie-Spittle has been published in this and other websites and in Poetic Hours and Carradog this year for various types of poetry ranging from spiritual to war.