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Post Road Magazine #31


Suzanne Manizza Roszak

The seventh time they laugh about

my homicidal male relatives, I recall

the back of my father's truck plastered over

for peace. Free Leonard Peltier, the bumper

commands as we crest the hill, each of us

longhaired and flying a limb out

the open window like a cheerful flag of

surrender. This is what I recall

while they delight in the glistening

outlines of my father's imaginary

violence, to be realized in the manner

of a village clan with tanned faces

avenging something: maybe the town's guts

emptied out, figures passing through

stone houses, down the hill, into the sea.

Elegy for the Quiet House

It is a story for telling and not telling. A story

for floating, for tying down

with weights. A story for braiding

and re-braiding into forms

that can be stilled.

Imagine a hundred bright faces

at work. Hanging over the pottery wheel, the cutting

board, the pock-marked rhododendron.

Imagine them as a kaleidoscope

of impossibility: all the shining

repeated permutations

of want.

Move backward. Call up the faded intervals

after noon: kitchen radio static

between maracas and evangelical

tripe. Call up the terrifying force

of sweat. Raw nerves radiate

a pain that insinuates itself

into everything.

Mark it: the boundary

between spectacle and the quiet

house, hearth-fire curled around

the razor elbows of

our future.

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