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Maureen Thorson

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There are no guarantees

                        among dense magnolias

biding their blooms.


There is this unlooked-for thing in the early morning—

your warm hull

    dreaming beside me.





                        I hear best when I’m not listening.

Here’s the dialtone.


                        The future’s never certain,

but some things do keep coming,


            like sunrise, when an image manifests

in the corner of my eye—


                        through the windows, over your body—




automatic gold.








Here be monsters.


     The spring night is just-passed rain,

     black streets rinsed and shining,

     dim people in slickers

     walking microscopic dogs.


            The body as the axis of itself

            has many ways of conversing.




I’ve been learning words with lots of vowels.

The openness of speech.


            Like movement.

            Like moving.




Fluttery hands, fidgety laps.

Nerves set my body to the string.


Their sound will reach you over land and sea.

Through floors and walls.


     In pliés and swoops.

     The compromise of breath and muscle,

     feet pounding the floor.




This method

by which I display

                                        my worries,



by which I wear them out.

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