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by Susan Barry-Schulz

That summer my body a furnace<simmering

like milk< blooming frothy and thick over the scoured

rim of the stainless steel Dutch oven<dripping down

the back of the stove to a place I can’t reach any-

more<my feet a damp root cellar<calves bursting<

my under-clothes soaked<the dog licking my salty

shins<hair oily and dark at the crown<my face slick<

sour<my signature scent<a stagnant puddle ensconced

where the angel shushed me<brown eyes burning

through pages of memoirs of all the poets who bore

the heat far better than I<if only a wind<

if only a cloud<if only a thunder-clap<a flash

of lightening <a torrent enough to fill

the rain barrel<if only September.

Susan Barry-Schulz grew up just outside of Buffalo, New York. She is a licensed physical therapist and a poet living with chronic illness. Her poetry has appeared in SWWIM, Barrelhouse online, Kissing Dynamite, Rogue Agent, New Verse News, Nightingale & Sparrow, Shooter Literary Magazine, The Wild Word, Bending Genres, MORIA Literary Magazine, B O D Y, Gyroscope Review, Harpy Hybrid Review, Wordgathering, West Trestle Review, River Mouth Review, SHIFT, Pine Hills Review, and elsewhere.


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