Each Goodnight

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[Image: page 1 of “State Change” by Ken Liu. Most of the text has been blacked out. The remainder reads:

Every night there were two,
one and one refilled
life and soul
the chorus of touch
kept open
held close]

This is an erasure poem, and this is what that is. The original text is below:

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That Strange Resolve

erasure_yeahwrite

[Image: page 13 of “Jane Eyre” by Charlotte Bronte. Most of the text has been blacked out. The remainder reads:

I resisted the new strength
of myself,
that strange resolve

shame! How is he my master?

my impulse
must break

she loosened her folded arms,
dark and incredulous

She never did so before]

[this is an erasure poem, and this is what that is]

Photo by Nicole Mason on Unsplash

Done By Halves

How has your heart not split in half?
Lip service ceased being enough long
ago, but here’s one more given yet another pass.

Questions yawn between us like a pass,
the room made chill, divided into your half
and mine. The desolate gap is too long.

This is it, right? It won’t be long,
it can’t, until we can walk tall again, pass
through, no longer bent, as if against the wind, in half—

We’re long past giving that a pass, so stand tall: this half of sky is still ours.

(a tritina with words pulled from the fiction challenge prompt)

Alex Wigan

Creation

Lay out the bowls –
the largest fits cupped in your palm –
smallest to largest,
a bit like planets.
Place a very large bowl
at the end.
Pour in the flour, scooping and leveling
carefully
so as
not to
compress it.
Fill the others with
baking soda, cocoa,
sugar, baking powder.
Let the gravity of the largest
draw them, one by one,
glucose and alkalinity
and calcium and magnesium
and carbon dioxide
all activating
like primordial life when you
mix.
Add salt: a sprinkle
of minuscule asteroids
cratering the powder.
A second bowl, not as large.
Combine eggs, oil, and milk.
In the first bowl, make a well
and then there is water,
and it is good.
Pour into pans and
bake.
Breathe in the fragrance.
Creation takes time.
Allow it to cool.

(inspired by these ancient poem-recipes)

Small Mercies

I envy – and I recognize my
irony – those who can pray
praises to fill a censer,
certain of their hope.
Open and raw,
Abba, Father, I cry only
leniency, relief, mercy.
See me? Small though I am?

Oh, I am worn out,
outdone, overrun,
run down. I need filling up.
Upon this rock, I listen:
Envy grows no good fruit –
root down my soul, water me.
Even here, tenderly, meekly,
leaves unfurl, silver and new.