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5

The old man who picks up the phone

does not get your message.

Call again.

Please call again.

The cats leave squirrel guts

on the Tibetan rug.

Augury I cannot read.

You’ve got to talk with me.

I scrape glistening coils

into a dust pan,

spit on drops of blood and spray ammonia.

The blood spreads into the white wool.

I am so sick of purring beasts.

Don’t tempt me, old man.

Today I have four arms

and weapons in each hand.

Old Man Vacanas

Jane Munro

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Poem of the Week

Dzvinia Orlowsky

Wine of Angels

translated from the Ukrainian written by
Natalka Bilotserkivets