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Fiesta Brava

by Joseph Gross

Then there he is again— / the Suit of Lights, all / epaulets and reluctant pink and gold, / back in the ring.

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Beer For Breakfast

by David Salner

The chrome-colored clouds / pushed the heat down, held in the car fumes, / the smell of the asphalt. Out on the patio, / I was ready for work

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Maternity Leave

by Lauren Yates

There is something about traveling home that stops the blood. / My womb becomes a howling dog warning me of danger.

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A Quintuple

by Simon Perchik

Here, there, the way silence / tows you below the waterline / and though you are alone / you’re not sure where her name / is floating on the surface / or what’s left

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River Mouth

by Heather Dobbins

She hasn’t taken off her swimsuit all summer. She is two hands / across her middle. I know that from throwing her: one foot / on my thigh, the other in my palm. Up, over, splash.

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Proctoring

by Michael Lauchlan

Among students, I drink the same / coffee I drank at home an hour / ago—which is not some philosophical metaphor.

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Sefeed

by Mathew Javidi

If I could go back, / I would have clutched my tongue, / not let it pirouette into / the soft, dim spotlight of / your living room

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Monastery

by Alicia Lai

Once I entered into a symbiotic relationship with a praying mantis, wings folded / at our altar of Queen Anne’s lace. There is wine on the table—father, please don’t / let the calf bleed on me.

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Dark Rum & Tonic

by Molly Fisk

Sometimes what you need is a road / house, blast of laughter and warm air pouring / out the door, where the waitresses know / your name but the customers don’t

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A Capitalist Back to Nature

by Robert S. King

Here is the last forest that has never / heard the crisp snap of a dollar / or a siren louder than a crow. / Here the wind does not honor / the borders of a deed.

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Five by Perchik

by Simon Perchik

This dirt still mimics sweat / lies down alongside, unsure / your lips would quiet it / though the finger that is familiar / probably is yours –could be enough

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Letter to Francisco

by Mark Ramirez

I wonder what it feels like to die; to feel the rhythm of your body / fall to rest as you watch your final breath dissipate, / to speak only through dreams and the grainy film of memory.

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Weeding

by Art Nahill

Kneeling amidst / the camellias, roses / culling the self / sown from the cultivated / the disdained / from the highly-regarded / I’m reminded / how circumstance / defines us

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Red Apple

by Rustin Larson

I soak my sleeve in water just to foul things up a bit, / Create a small level of misery, to keep the defense / Honest.

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The 2017 Lascaux Prize in Poetry is open for submissions. Winner receives $1000. Winner and all finalists will appear in The 2018 Lascaux Prize Anthology.

  

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Lascaux 250 Lascaux Review Easy Street