Attic Boxes

© Tess Taylor '00

I.  
Unsettled now, they scatter open—
inner chaos lifelike as odd birds.

They hold alibis & chatter, whir
of windows. Initials on a tarnished pitcher.  

Spidery pencil, Minneapolis, 1867. “Dear friend Lulu:
A cold wind whips this barren prairie.”


Bombay 1927: “I was presiding at the high school Jubilee:
the speaker referred to me as missionary Patriarch—”


1913: Helen’s verses to dawn on the Lusitania.
Helen crazed in Brussels and the Pater

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Bluet

By Dan Chiasson '93

Flowers have faces. They are happy or sad.
Their faces change, like ours;
unlike us, it doesn’t mean
Uh-Oh a new mood out of nowhere dawned.

Technically it is immoral to kill a flower
but people do it all the time,
to smooth something over or please a lover.
Nature just rolls right on, headless.

Printed with the poet’s permission

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