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Victoria Doerper

The Old Women They join together, Like late season apples, fragrant And juicy with mellow sweetness, Tart and tangy and bubbling hot Under a cobbler-crumbled crust. They sound in clear notes of silver Bells, like the trickle of autumn waters Kissing each stone, caressing each pebble, Singing music into the gathering silt. They are old, these women who gather Up beads, buttons, threads, and shells, Who patch badges onto tattered sashes Draping their singular, well-worn cloth. They weather like ancient wood, With seasons written in their cells, Remnants of storm, drought, and sun, Of wind or lick of fire or slash of ax. Stories bloom in their gnarled gardens, Heartwood old and just unfurled, Wildflower rangy and stoic as stone, Shining brilliant as the leaves fall.

Red

Michael Kleven

Leonie Mikele Fogle

The Tansu Chest When I rummage through rice-paper stock I find blossoms in the deep end of my Tansu-chest. The blush of kiri is no wood to what’s in my drawer— its rice paper, its rose and ink.

Runner of days, tasteless peeve of womb— doubt lies at the door. I serve my husband a false brash of eggs.

But the landscape, it already has a wash. Two more pigments for the picture—charcoal, brown? And then go through the numb of winter with limbs and leaves and joints and veins.

Hand to the plough, they once again till The old soil faithfully, turning and tending, Watering, watching, and awaiting Some unknown harvest yet to come, Trusting now in the vagaries of weather, Each other, and the seeds they scatter.

Joe Reno

Cirque, Vol. 7 No. 1  

A Literary Journal for the North Pacific Rim

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