Baba Yaga

By Eloise Faichney   Your walking-hut1, witchmother, hides in the forest of the Tsar. You; ambiguity personified with bony legs and...

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By Eloise Faichney   You still do not understand what I have seen, Padre. These rosaries will not save us now, nor these prayers; we...

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Untitled Poem

By Christina Aitken Spots of crimson dance in the breeze Below, the swollen, shuddering sea bears hopeful young men to war Standing in rows...

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