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POETRY
Hermitage
Katarina Boudreaux
Wetland Walking
Marie Kilroy
Buffalo Jump
Jory Mickelson
Field Dressing
Sarah Young
Poem for a Young Man
Kay Middleton
Nest
Chloe Yelena Miller
A Hitchhiker I Picked Up Outside of Blowing Rock, NC
Paul Piatkowski
PROSE
A Dark Pullover, Maybe Jeans
Scot Ehrhardt
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Buffalo Jump// Jory Mickelson
Bones crowd beneath this skin,
of sod-fescue and bluestem.
Peel it back and you can witness
generations of falling.
They hang suspended in earth
like insects in amber,
history displayed with a spade.
Sometimes I'm one of those hunters
who grip the handrail like a spear,
my fingers tracing down the banister
to the chipped Clovis point.
The panoramic view
shows me the heap and splay below,
a landscape of bodies.
But more often I'm the animal
running past instinct.
A dim clunking machine of hide and sinew,
shumbling blind in passionate terror.
My heavy tongue escaping my lips
as my nostrils bloom and rebloom
like dark peonies.
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