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L a u r e n G o r d o n
You found your poem’s nest
in the eaves of your father’s garage; a tangle
of pine and ash, threaded and taut,
lined with paper shredded by the mouth
of the mother, her own saliva a salve
to soften and warm
small, temporary bodies.
copyright 2014 by Lauren Gordon
guest editor: Sara Biggs Chaney
Afterword
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