Janet R. Kirchheimer
By Janet R. Kirchheimer
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Culture POEM: Bus Ride, Early September Morning
The young girl, who looks no older than seven or eight, her black hair draped on her arms, leans out of the bus window as if she were sleeping. Only her turquoise and black shirt, ripped open, and the blood streak down the side of the bus tell you she is dead. In Jerusalem, workers…
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The Schmooze POEM: One-Sixtieth Prophecy
Near the house, next to the woodpile, lies a dream too weak to enter. I hold my shadow down as it tries to escape, shut the windows, bar the doors, imagine myself bright and shiny. I am Joseph in the bor, the pit, empty of water, but full of scorpions and serpents. There is no…
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