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      June 10, 2024Villanelle over Spilled MilkLizabeth Yandel

      every evening the milk spills at dinner.
      my puny hand grabs the plastic chalice, fails.
      dad swings his fist down like a hammer.
      the plates shiver and the tinny silver-
      ware shrieks. sister’s wide eyes silently wail
      don’t you spill that fucking milk at dinner
      but we both know i’m the baby sinner,
      i put my hand between my legs like a tail.
      dad slams down like a white-knuckle pastor.
      tv’s ted danson & kelsey grammer
      rerunning dad’s good old tavern days,
      now they gulp sorry milk with their liquor.
      my milky heart jumps out onto a platter.
      tv jingles our troubles are all the same!
      sad dad’s mad fist, a wind-up doll of anger
      we can’t unwind. & ever after, the danger
      rerunning where everybody knows your _____
      where the milk is ever spilling at dinner
      where all the hands are fists are hammers

      from #83 – Collaboration

      Lizabeth Yandel

      “Poetry allows me to reach beyond the precipice of human consciousness into the abyss of what we don’t yet understand and siphon something back. If there’s a point to art, I believe this is it. Even if it’s just the sense of something new, a faint silhouette, I feel I’ve done my job as an artist. Also, I seem to just write poems compulsively. I can’t help myself.”