From below,
it looks like a young woman
Poetry
Rose Marie Berger 9-01-1996
Sarajevo, 1995
I dream now of potatoes—
white, russet, red.
Sentinel potatoes, like Argus,
with eyes everywhere;
watching the dead underground
in the cemetery,
in the stadium,
in the streetcar turnaround.
Otis Bakari Moss III 1-01-1996
I could swim in this sea, this sea of Black helix hair and fleecy locks, waves of caramel,honey,Blue Black,Red brown chocolate faces...
May Sarton 11-01-1995
May Sarton-poet, novelist, feminist, journal keeper, and Sojourners member-died this summer at the age of 83 (see "May Sarton: Years of Praise," September-October 1995).
Linda McCarriston 9-01-1995
I could not presume even to speak of it,
were we to meet, were we to be trapped
Rose Marie Berger 9-01-1994
"I am mooring my rowboat
at the dock of the island called God."
—Anne Sexton
The Awful Rowing Toward God
Edward A. Dougherty 8-01-1994
She folded herself
into a small package, legs and feet
under her body, words
even smaller.
She carries
a message. In a language
I don't understand,
she tells us about parents,
about their small, folded children
all burning, red-orange and pink.
Of course, somewhere in all this
there is a flag.
Elizabeth Ann James 7-01-1994
My dearest aunt, Butheyna, is chopping beets,
chopping the shamander. Klush, klush
she wields
a gutting knife, the chopping board
is a plank from a dhow. Klush,
Sean Thomas Dougherty 6-01-1994
The saint descended
From her carriage to stretch
Her forefinger to a peasant girl
Whose face was covered with sores;