What the Snow Covers

is the witnessing grass
pressed down by boot
in joy or fear and
cut by dangerous blades
and neighbor’s gazes.

What the snow uncovers
is the secret parade,
the pawed passage
of shivering midnight
moonlight scavengers.

What the snow covers
is its own white with
further white, soft light
made heavy after its
nomadic fall, the flakes
ache to settle, nestle, wait.

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Milk

Milk When I learned your mother hadn’t breastfed you, I wanted to do it. Having no milk, we would have to imagine it. “It tastes like moonlight,” I would say, feeling the silent warmth empty from my breast, a grown man suckling that long denied nourishment, a homecoming.   [Meet the Moon | Christian Schloe]

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For Tituba

Christopher Greer is an educator and writer who lives in Alpharetta, GA. His work has appeared in, or is forthcoming from, Canary, Clarion, Inwood Indiana, and other small journals. He holds an MS from Purdue University. For Tituba How your body must’ve glittered under ceremonial moonlight, unapologetically glowing, wet with wondrous blasphemy. Unchained elation bleeding from the […]

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