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Nightjar
by
Susan Mickelberry |
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Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill
The trailer is open to the swamp night.
A man lies sleeping on the trailer floor.
We are not together the way we once were.
It is so dark in the dark here,
No moonlight drifts through the open door.
Insects, goatsucker whir in the night;
Night sounds fall into flight.
Whippoorwill, whippoorwill
He says my name out loud
Into the somnolent night.
I feel the shape of his word,
The asymmetry of couch, stone, brain,
The night air as damp as stone.
The trailer hangs around us in the night.
We are here inside like terrain.
He touches my foot.
Whippoorwill.
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Susan
Mickelberry's
poetry has appeared in the Greensboro
Review, the Florida Quarterly,
Via, the Florida Review,
and Cider Press. She has a Master's
degree in English from the University
of Florida and has studied with Donald
Justice and John Frederick Nims, among
others. She works at the University of
Florida in Gainesville, Florida, as an
editor and designer.
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The Blue Moon Review is copyright ©1994-2002, All rights are
reserved. So there. ISSN 1079-042x
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