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Barbara Crooker
Shooting
Range
Spring is a green rifle, locked and loaded.
Pull the trigger: a scatter shot of violets
splays the ground. Bleeding hearts drip
on the lawn, a virulent green that hurts
the eyes. The bees are unbuttoning
the apple trees' silk blouses, and the air
reeks with desire. Even the muzak of bird
song, all arioso, is saying, "Come
here, baby. Ravish me."
Gone
for my mother
In the end, she quietly slipped
away, like the barest glint
of a crescent moon
which dropped like a cent sign
though a slot in the dark hills.
Road flares ringed the lake
to welcome summer,
a necklace of hot rubies,
while she went someplace
else, where I cannot call her,
where no birds sing.
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