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After Orlando

1
The Angel of Death had yellow—
and-black wings that looked
gold and gray in the setting sun.

You can be killed any time
by someone you don’t know.

2
My mother’s side of the family doesn’t
exist anymore. Someone killed them all—

had them gassed, shot, hanged, injected.
I can’t think too much about it without

feeling I’m meeting the person I might’ve
been. Billions of us occupy the same small

planet, but it only seems like we’re sharing...

 

Minnesota Center for the Book Arts Love Local Sale - Saturday, November 19, 2016 from 10:00 am to 5:00 pm

Love Local celebrates the rich craft traditions of the Twin Cities and is hosted by the Minnnesota Center for the Book Arts.  This will mark the fifteenth year of the annual holiday sale and Red Bird Chapbooks is happy to be participating for the first time this year.  

The event is Saturday, November 19 from 10:00 am to 5:00 pm at The Shop at MCBA (1011 Washington Avenue South #100, Minneapolis MN 55415).

Click here for more details.

Reading from A Little Book of Abundance: poems of thanksgiving throughout the year and Open Mic - December 1, 2016 at 7:00 pm

ArtStart’s Artscraps 
1459 St. Clair 
Saint Paul MN 55105

Thursday, December 1, 2016, 7:00 P.M.

Join poet Margaret Hasse, organizer and anthologizer, along with Nancy Christensen, Anne Curtin, Sharon Hilberer, Joan Johnson, Barb Jones, Dorothy Schlesselman, Ann Schroeder, and Miriam Weinstein. 

Alison Morse featured at Midstream Reading Series on Thursday, December 8, 2016 at 7:30 pm

Alison Morse, author of the forthcoming fiction collection If You Wave a Chicken Over Your Head, will be a featured reader at the December Midstream Reading Series.

Blue Moon Cafe building
3820 East Lake Street
Minneapolis MN

Thursday, December 8, 2016, 7:30 to 8:30 P.M.

An Epistle to Alzheimer’s

The man leaning over the window is volatile. The winds could carry him without a trace of noise, particularly on a night like this. His eyes are contorted by a sudden loss of memory, his fingers tap restlessly on the sill. His voice is nebulous—a gathering of clouds in pursuit of its shadows. Everything seems to be lost here, even his body.

He leans closer to the mirror to realize he has lost it. Where did it go? 
Answers seem to evade his feeble ears.

Somewhere far away, a horse neighs softly. That is his voice, it dawns upon him. His reality. When he drapes it around himself, the moon will no longer be a stranger. The sun a myth. He will stop wondering about the stars in the horizon, their irreparable losses.
Perhaps, someday.

 

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