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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & Owner
Ray Rasmussen, General Editor

Volume 12, Number 3, September 2018
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Praniti Gulyani
New Delhi, India


Dusted Skies

I dust the face of the grandfather clock. Between its thin needles, I find a blue door that will open like the sky, the freshest bit of sky that ever existed, over the highest tree branch that rubbed off on my fingers as I scraped my nails against the tough bark, groping for the ripe apples, tightening my grasp around nothing but wind

and then grandfather would come running, and the way he stood under the tree, and the way the dust fell on his face, and the way I attempted to wipe the dust with my sleeves

and place a bit of sky on every one of his eyelashes. . . .

homecoming . . .
why does the cuckoo's song
have an accent

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