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Rachel Contreni Flynn

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by this poet

August in Indiana:
a heavy moon hung over space
where there was almost nothing
but one big town at dead center.
Grasshoppers popped under tires, 
the trees swelled with grackles,
and I amused myself with windmills -- 
the solitary geometry of glint and spin,
slowing then standing motionless
until the
If light pours like water
into the kitchen where I sway
with my tired children,

if the rug beneath us
is woven with tough flowers,
and the yellow bowl on the table

rests with the sweet heft 
of fruit, the sun-warmed plums, 
if my body curves over the babies, 

and if I am singing,
then loneliness has lost its