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Poem: Graeae 

For Jennifer Stroud Wirth

My sister became our mother

at twelve, screeching

lessons onto the blackboard,

lecturing letters and numbers, and

prodding her fraying pull down map

with a stick. She taught of better places than this

must filled basement classroom

with walls like a dungeon—

peers' spiders and beetles. Upstairs

her predecessor creaks

furies into the floorboards,

each agony a puff of dust

drifting down from the rafters. Mad

Enyo, groping blindly for her lost eye;

husbandless—she can no longer prophesy.

  • A poem by Shawn Nacona Stroud.


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