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Summer 2007
ESSAY
Altered
Landscape
On
my last visit home, Mom showed me her coal tattoo. She drew my
fingers to a black spot no wider than a pencil lead that I'd never
noticed just under the skin of her right temple, the point of impact
where one of her brothers — she couldn't remember which — had
chucked a lump of coal at her when they were kids.
POETRY
Ancestral
Morning,
by Brian Lowry
POETRY
How This Had
to End,
by Rose McLarney
THE HALF EMPTY MASON JAR
Scrambling
for Satisfaction: Blame it on TC
"Mom, you're never
satisfied," my 17-year-old daughter squawked. Sarah had overheard me
grousing to a friend on the phone about a recent trip.
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