Tupelo Press 30/30 Project: Day #27

My twenty seventh poem for 30/30, “Palo & Francesca” is live. For more information about Tupelo Press, 30/30 & donations and incentives, please see my previous post or visit the project blog. This poem was written for Kathryn Wilbanks who discovered and donated to 30/30 through my good friend Sam Snoek Brown. She’s one of his students, so thanks to you, Kathryn, and to Sam for sharing this project with your students.

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The Kiss by August Rodin, c. 1889

Tupelo Press 30/30 Project: Day #23

My twenty third poem for 30/30, “Mourning Dove” is live. For more information about Tupelo Press, 30/30 & donations and incentives, please see my previous post or visit the project blog. This poem was inspired by the mourning dove nesting on the third floor of the building I teach in everyday. I’ve always thought of mourning doves as kind of frumpy, but there is something stoic about this one.

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Tupelo Press 30/30 Project: Day #22

My twenty second poem for 30/30, “Catacomb Saints” is live. For more information about Tupelo Press, 30/30 & donations and incentives, please see my previous post or visit the project blog. Thank you to Emily for your support & amazing prompt! Here’s the article that inspired the poem: “Meet the Fantastically Bejeweled Skeletons of Catholicism’s Forgotten Martyrs” by Rachel Nuwer.

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Starling, by Brianna Pike

Awhile back I came across and open call from Katie Woodzick looking for poets who would like to have a poem of theirs recorded. I thought this was a really neat idea, so I sent my poem, “Starling,” in for consideration and today the recording popped up on my Facebook feed. It’s excellent and I can’t thank Katie enough for giving me this artifact to share with others.

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For Roger and Beth Young
This morning I shot a starling straight from the sky.
The shiny, black bastard drove the sparrows and wrens
from your carefully kept feeders, then strutted
about the branches of our old apple tree.

You do not approve, Beth. Your gentle soul gives grace
to all creatures, even your sisters who just arrived.
You are pouring tea as I walk around the front of our house,
shotgun resting over my right shoulder.

Three sisters swoop down on your small
frame, pulling at your arms, pressing against your back.
Their cackling disrupts our quiet home, dark
eyes move over our stone floors,

pine paneled walls, and the small, cast iron stove
smoking away in the corner. You look away,
your eyes light, but your mouth a thin, rigid
line slicing your face in two.

As the youngest you bear their burden, the blame
for lost children…

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