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Jeanne Marie Beaumont

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by this poet

I think about the past. I empty the ice-cube trays
crack crack cracking like bones, and I think
of decades of ice cubes and of John Cheever,
of Anne Sexton making cocktails, of decades
of cocktail parties, and it feels suddenly far
too lonely at my counter. Although I have on hooks
nearby the embroidered apron
         				   (June 30, France)


I set the cookbook on fire 
by holding it close to the 
reading lamp


I began the reading lamp fire 
by holding it close
to romance


I lit the romance by 
holding it
close to the cookbook
The road out front is all torn up and has remained that way for a long time. One day they 
tractor-pulled the trunk of a fallen tree, its roots undone by the doings. Saw crews came in 
and buzzed for days like a disturbed hive. I could not save the flowers. Pyramids of pipe plastic 
appeared overnight. Rats,