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  November 2018
volume 15 number 1
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  featured poets
  Will Alexander
  Sir Mark Bruback
  Don Kingfisher Campbell
  John LaMar Elison
  Darrell Herbert
  Emma Lee
  Rick Lupert
  Fabrice Poussin
  Walter Ruhlmann
  Miriam Sagan
  David Scriven
  Viola Weinberg
  Terry Wolverton
 
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Fabrice Poussin November 2018
   

 

bio


photo by marie c lecrivain

    Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review, and more than 250 other publications.

   

 

Swallows

On the wings of the Mediterranean
under the light of a star
above the dust that is home
long after the chase for the dream
of black and blue and auburn
they soared
drawn to infinity
impossible to stop
or slow them
pulled into the cosmos
on the wings of eternity
forever they will fly
the dear souls
as one and as all.

copyright 2018 Fabrice Poussin

   

 

Aces Up

The cards spread on the crumbling table;
oddly lined and stacked in a child’s game;
the tin box of goodies and sweets at hand’s reach;
she coughs and grabs the snuff so predictably.

Time has stopped for her, she has no more
of a need for it than she would a tank or a sword;
a great partner at play with the bribe, as always
her heart gallops with a known excitement.

Little legs came from another land it seems;
though in summer every day, at the same time
he makes his appointment with the lady;
wrinkly, who sometimes still gardens a little.

No pet around, but the old TV set seems to meow,
bark, buzz with lives hunched over by the hearth;
she wipes her nose nonchalantly, adjusting her glasses;
it is already the third hand and she is points behind.

The sun lingers, thinking of a short night ahead,
ripening wheat, corn and grapes, bored yet faithful,
the lady has little care for much any more;
the hands on the clock have fallen with the last news.

An accident, a calamity, a storm, a war, a few gunshots;
hunting season again, is it? Ah, she might kill indeed,
for the taste of the latest vine of her fields forgotten
no longer harvester, like the child she once was, she plays.

copyright 2018 Fabrice Poussin