Sara Lartigue Jackson

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. —Edgar Allen Poe

It’s hers now.

With her pit bull sidekick,

arm out the truck,

she’ll take the dem site

pine and carry it home.

The wood has a story

she’ll tell with hammers,

write with sawdust.

The wood has a story.

It’s hers.

Sara Latrigue Jackson

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Miriam Hartley

In 1888, her grandfather was a man holding a pencil

imagining a city in little squiggles and lines. “I’m just

so fortunate to be here,” she says at her windowsill.

The asphalt is honest—both straightens and winds.

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