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S. M. Badawi
We found God in a tree. A boy hung
on silk cotton, hummed a tune about mother
fuckers & lovely ladies: youthed mouth
clamoring, expectant. I remember the climb
after him. How limbs shook as vines mapped
their way up the trunk, fat leaves darkening
roots below. In the sway, the boy started
to chant. He didn't know the words but he knew
how to say them, prayed away the disease
of doubt. He pushed me & he kept on praying
& God found him a shadow damned
to darkness. When I fell I found God
in my teeth. I gaped red up at the boy who etched
Witness onto the tree, the W sunk deepest
in the wood. He later became a doctor, found God
again stitching a girl's lip, two stitches, the length
of Adam's first incision. First Do No Harm
but he had already harmed. Smudged his shadow
onto the salty seam as if to anoint the sick
with his mercy. Sometimes mercy is enough
& sometimes it isn't. The opposite of mercy
is cruelty. The doctor was commanded to save
so he tugged hard on the suture, signed Witness
on her chart to notarize the blood. Witness
to the wound. Witness to the tree. Witness
to the God who commanded, Bleed, & so we bled.
from the journal CREAM CITY REVIEW
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Why South Dakota Has No Poet Laureate

"Poet Laureate Emeritus Christine Stewart says since the laureate is not a paid position, whomever is chosen must be an effective collaborator as well as a poet of merit. 'It makes me really sad that the board’s choice didn’t get confirmed by the governor....I know the board knew they could work with their choice. They believed in that person’s track record, the quality of their work, and what they had in mind moving forward.'"

via SOUTH DAKOTA PUBLIC BROADCASTING
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Cover image of Sara Nicholson's book, April
What Sparks Poetry:
Michael Joseph Walsh on Sara Nicholson's April


"Maybe what Nature and Art have in common is their amenability to being read—the fact that both can be the object of lectio divina, the contemplation of the 'living word.' In April the gods have left us, but Nature, like poetry, is being written, and can be read. The world is a poem, or a painting, and a poem, in turn, is the world, or at least a world (an 'imaginary garden with real toads in [it],' if you will)."
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