poetry | Page 3 | wisconsinacademy.org
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When you were three years old, I knocked on the men’s room door,and, taking your hand, opened the door cautiously.

I’d never been in a men’s room before.Urinal against the wall, a small white cake

Beneath the butcher-wrap paperlay Formica of gray with black flecks,and after my mother and her side-kick

So tell your story, each version more distantand yet … still fresh, never finished.

No matter whether death was suddenor a gradual decline,

You need to remind the mind over and over againto come back to quiet,

to the dark hollows of where words and no wordsare found, like hunting morels in a forest.

As my mother tells it,when the Great Warcame        my Great-GrandmotherGuarneschella lied. Datesare relative.                   Domenicowouldn’t be 16. Wouldn’t beconscripted. Didn’t matter.

In this Academy Evening talk, Bruce Dethlefsen discusses his evolution as a poet and shares his wisdom for emerging writers.

A new collection by Appleton poet Melissa Range draws from medieval religious manuscripts, Old English literature, and “hillbilly” stories from East Tennessee.

The election happened and now you’re driving north.November freezes in the birch trees. The fieldshave nothing left. In Wisconsin where you pass themthe hills go rolling autumn through the cold.

Exhausted, this light.It was supposed to shinepiercingly brightset the roof ablazemelt the fire escapespark mica in the wallsinge a rat’s whiskersin its hole.But side-swiped by a taxi door

Life may not be as bleak as it seems.

The hurried seasons—spring, summerand fall—may plow into winter’s caboose, send it vamoosing.

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