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This edition encourages us to contemplate our own culpability in driving global eco-catastrophe; mourn the generational nostalgia of clear, starry skies; and confront the destructive implications of actions we often dismiss as human ignorance.
These Are the Things You Think About Before You Freeze to Death Outside of the Shell Station
Featured Poem:
by Marylewis Phillipps
1. The ice has frozen in sheets over the pavement, forming ugly, glassy panes that barely crack under the heel of your boot, but the snow is still beautiful, even lumped into three feet of sediment and frost.
2. There is no snow in Bayou La Batre, where you were bred and beaten into the young man you are today— just soft earth and potholes. You spent summers filling them in with the brother who hates you, waging a guerilla war against the asphalt until your shirts were rich with sweat.
3. Holding a slip of gum in your mouth before it went soggy. You spat it into the grass before worrying the gnatcatcher would peck too close to the sodden clot of sugar. It hopped away.
4. Going home, dead tired and hungry.
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