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POETRY / In Which I Compare a Salesman to the Roads I Did Not Travel / Beth Gordon

he met me at a clam bake, barefoot and howling at the moon on the gulf coast 
in the summer of ‘82 and has never forgotten my hand on the bottle of raspberry  

wine or the way I disguised my lust with tragedy, my tears sparkling like beacons
every time I walked into the bay, and I told him that his ice was melting

POETRY / The Patron Saint of Poor Millennials Who Sniff Candles at Anthropologie / Justin Karcher

growing up, you always thought you’d be as tall as lightning in a bottle, so damn electrical
you’d shatter any prison with your brightness & shoot through the clouds in a blaze of glory
it hasn’t worked out the way you had hoped, wasting your wilderness on the American Dream
partying in the gooey lowlands & cutting up napkin monsters, all that talk about howling
where were you when all the broken people in your life built boats out of used razor blades?