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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 6, Number 1, March 2012


Kay Tracy
Portland, Oregon, USA

Never Never Land

In many moons, I hope to have a child―not necessarily my own―who will sit and talk with me when my younger self has left. There is no one like my younger self, and I fear I'll be alone.

dishes stack
over the table
young and old drink tea
a ceremony of repetition

The kitchen is where people meet to cook, wash, nurse, and eat. It's the warmest room in the house. All phases of the moon sink below its window.

washing mother's hair
bending the water
over silver falls
the foam
displaces rainbows

I stifle my urges to return to a world where machines and gadgets replace human touch, a world where bread doesn't rise in the mornings. I wait for the scraps of time swept under the table when I can sneak a peek at the universe. I pass the moon and sail by the second star on the right, looking for my younger self.

Basho's book
on the table
pressing moments
into dried flowers
a bouquet for my future youth



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