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

Volume 13, Number 2, June 2019
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Dru Philippou
Taos, New Mexico, USA


Nostos

memories
wash up like seaweed
on distant shores
who will untangle
yesterday from today

Making my way up the hill to my childhood home, I catch a glimpse of blue shutters folded like butterfly wings, the swing with its escape into sky, the barn where I hid when mother and father fought. I enter through the back door of the house, using the key concealed among the broken flowerpots, and race through the half-dark hallway to my room. Dragging my toys from under the bed, I bring each plaything into the light.

orange-blossom air
wafts through a window . . .
I rock
my doll to sleep
with an old lullaby

I step into the garden, close my eyes, and catch whispers of the past borne on Zephyr’s breath. After years of absence from my birthplace, I feel like another intruder: successive waves of invaders have colonized this island at the crossroads of continents. For more than half a century, it has been divided in two by the Green Line.

a solano bush,
brutally cut back
by a neighbor,
leans against
a rust-eaten fence

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