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Angie Estes

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Angie Estes
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Angie Estes is the author of Enchantée (Oberlin College Press, 2013). She teaches in the MFA program at Ashland University and lives in Urbana, Illinois.

by this poet

poem
No one says it 
anymore, my darling, 
not to the green leaves 
in March, not to the stars 
backing up each night, certainly 
not in the nest
of rapture, who 
in the beginning was 
an owl, rustling 
just after silence, whose 
very presence drew 
a mob of birds--flickers, 
finches, chickadees, five
poem
My mother said that Uncle Fred had a purple
heart, the right side of his body
blown off in Italy in World War II,
and I saw reddish blue figs
dropping from the hole
in his chest, the violet litter
of the jacaranda, heard the sentence
buckle, unbuckle like a belt
before opening the way
a feed sack opens all
at
poem
How many in a field
of wheat, and to whom
do they belong? O death, O
grave, Bright star, thou bleeding piece 
of earth, thou shouldst be
living at this hour, world without
synonym, amen. But I
digress, turn away like Giotto’s
contrapposto Christ, apostle
of contrecoeur—nothing like the