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Jess Burnquist

Seminars in Art

2 November 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3
poetry, prose poem

One mother used to boil orange rinds in sugar for hours to form a leathered candy. When her daughter was released from Dachau, she vowed no tears. Then the soldier tore the skin of an orange. Today, I read in the Encyclopedia of Birthdays that orange is a calming color for those born in April. I can't paint my walls this spring without picturing a mother boiling sweets for silenced tongues. I place my compositions in the corner. People think it isn't risky to be a satellite. My god, what I've never seen.


30 October 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3

The children have placed our eggplants

Beneath their shirts, purple boobs.

Earlier, daughter was pregnant

With a honeydew.

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