Short

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The Ugly Sweater Party by

“I didn’t love Lance anymore,” Jenni moans, “but I didn’t want him to die like that. I didn’t want him to die with all that Goosedown and Gortex sucking the air out of his lungs and not giving any back.”

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Apophasis by

Like some Sunday afternoon, my years emerge— / a car ride through the country then the city then back, / the maple trees, flax fields, rivers: a distance / but so close that memories are puffs of air on my closed eyes / and so it goes, and so I go like everyone / existing in small rooms, waiting.