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      June 29, 2016Paper Birds Don’t FlyAl Ortolani

      Last night I had a dream
      that my father, six years
      dead now, left me a message
      folded into some kind of origami bird.
      There was a girl in the dream,
      maybe a younger sister, maybe
      a little dead girl sent as a messenger.
      I don’t know how these things worked.
      Sitting at the table with the paper birds,
      she unfolded mine and began to read.
      I couldn’t make out a word
      she was saying.
      I woke in frustration, trying to will
      myself back into sleep
      into the dream of my father
      where I was sure he’d tried
      to cross over
      like he had so many times
      when he was living.

      from #51 - Spring 2016

      Al Ortolani

      “I started writing poetry after I’d quit football in high school. I’d lock myself in the bathroom and write on the floor where I wouldn’t be interrupted by my younger siblings. Usually, I wrote about unrequited love because somebody important said we should write about what we know. I didn’t know how typical I was.”