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poetry


POPPIES
by
Allison Field Bell

I have seen you paint them,

I watched with morning eyes,

Sleep still in the corners.


You squeezed color from a tube.

Alizarin Crimson,

Too cold for Greece in March.

Last night, your hands in the sheets:

I guess you understand my body.

Skin and hips easy to hold.


You will hate them soon,

Tiny flames on the hillsides,

You have always despised what is abundant.


Too much sky, for instance,

Can be devastating.

A ruined Canvas soaked in Kingís Blue.



THE DAY I FELL OUT OF LOVE
WITH MYSELF
by
Allison Field Bell

Motherís purse on the counter

A twenty in my fist.



Allison Field Bell grew up in a small Northern California town where she was mercilessly subjected to her familyís storytelling legacy. Since then, she has found herself in various different countries and cities indulging in a range of academic pursuits from Middle Eastern politics to oil painting. She has her BA in Creative Writing and Literature from Prescott College and has published poetry and fiction in Alligator Juniper, Our Stories, CIEL Voices and Visions, and The American (forthcoming).



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