by Cara Valle
The dirty cow still doesn’t move.
Yellow, dusty sunbeams lean
heavily on a window screen
where flies make loud, impatient love.
Now a rust-brown monochrome,
the old barn’s wooden planks hang down
in splinters from its rotten crown
like teeth cracked on an old comb.
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Original bio from the Spring 2015 edition:
Cara Valle first encountered poetry in the bathroom, where as a child she hid to flee her studies, and where her family kept a few little decorative books. Poetry continues to offer a brief daily recess, not from learning math, but rather—humorous twist—from managing the toileting and diapering of young children.