Poem by Mara Adamitz Scrupe
An artist of innuendo she imagines praise in her flight.
An artist of innuendo she imagines praise in her flight.
Have always in mind that the world is like you dream it.
Well, if you have lost your mind, blame Union Carbide. Blame the Atomic Bomb.
My aunt’s attitudes reminded me of the cultural practice of senicide, abandoning the aging to die.
I could move in any direction or be motionless, disconnected from everything—my life back in Korea, my plans to move home.
I turned to the only francophone music I could find in northern Illinois: the early Canadian albums of Céline Dion.
When I awake with no desire to rush for a pen, it’s hard to see the value in what is happening.
Everyone else in my family would remember me when I was gone. But not him.
That spring, still lamenting the loss of sidewalks, my daughter would barely leave the house without me by her side.
My decomposing body might be inspiration for whole tribes of thankful creatures in the soil.