Glen Armstrong


When we tired of sex and poetry
        We took inventory
        Of sail boats
        And redwing blackbirds

It was like catching stones
Skipped from the other direction

A dance upon the water / less
Emptiness for a while

Nothing frightened us back then

Though there were shadows
That shouldn’t have been

Shoes that no longer
Made sense

And discarded baby names
That raccoons made
A mess of

Each red thread your kimono shed
Hit the earth with a thud.



Little sister’s hands become
decanters full of smoke.

Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and Cream City Review.


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