T.L Stokes riverhousemassage@gmail.com Bio (auto) T.L Stokes lives on a two acre alpaca farm with two chickens, three alpacas, one cat and two dogs It’s a lucky hill the English cottage sits on, avoiding this year’s flood of the valley When not writing, the Pacific Northwest author specializes in injury treatment as a massage practitioner Previously published in Ancient Wind Press, Comrades Press, Ludlow Press, The Gin Bender Review, Pierian Springs, The 2River View, Stirring-A Literary Magazine, Circle Magazine, Words on Walls, in Snow Monkey by Ravena Press, and by Compassionately Stoneground Books. | | |
The following work is Copyright © 2009, and owned by T.L Stokes and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Locksmith’s Apprentice The Locksmith’s apprentice lives in the house of nuns across from the massive cathedral glowing spire stuck into clouds. She is the crow on the branch outside the Tai Chi master’s window, laughing, having witty conversations when no one is looking. She plays in the orchard at Good Samaritan at night with stars while he looks through his telescope. She sits in the chapel on the old wood floor unfolding crow wings in the musty air, watching him pray and circle, entranced, wanting to collect the glass beads from his eyes. |
Diane Elayne Dees dianedees@charter.net Bio (auto) Diane Elayne Dees is a psychotherapist and writer in Covington, Louisiana Diane publishes Women Who Serve, a blog about women’s professional tennis She is the winner of the The Binnacle‘s 2008 Editor’s Prize for Poetry, and she recently placed second in the 2008 California-based Janice Farrell Poetry Prize competition Read her blog here: http://womenwhoserve.blogspot.com | | |
The following work is Copyright © 2009, and owned by Diane Elayne Dees and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author. Anniversary I think of them from time to time– the young couple sweating under the arbor at the old hotel near the corn fields, the wedding march pumping out of a boombox on a Saturday afternoon Uninvited guests, we looked out our window at the ceremony–a break from watching endless images of New Orleans under water, people stranded on rooftops, pets tossed into the street before the bus to nowhere takes off The groom, handsome in dreadlocks and a smart beige suit, follows the bride to the altar She carries a bouquet of white and gold, to match her gown It is their first day .we do not know what day it is The woman with matching anklets, too-perfect makeup and every hair lacquered in place sashays into the ornate lobby, delivers orders to men who stare into space, and children who are too afraid to ask questions The woman who had to leave her disabled horse to die drinks coffee alone; the woman whose husband is dying smiles at me as I take my camera and leave for a glimpse of the festivities A scum-filled pond divides the wedding party from us, the evacuees suddenly descended on a town that was minding its own business In the garden, a lone eggplant dangles from its stalk like the last ravaged traffic light on Canal Street A silver limousine waits for the bridal pair, while we scoop ice from an ancient cooler, watch the news when we can bear to, and wonder what awaits us at home– if home exists at all Three years later, I think of them– dressed in their finest, the bride’s portraits propped against the gazebo and surrounded by white calla lilies Everything perfect, everything in place, just as they left it, before the big day. |
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