Poetry of Issue #4                        Page 46
Table of Contents	THE MAD GIRL REMEMBER WHEN EVERY GHOST STORY WAS A LOVE STORY A sadness condemned to repeat itself over and over. Blue eyes in the photograph crushed in a drawer in an abandoned house, something dead that seems to have been alive, loss and pain suspended in time, a blurred photograph of a moth trapped in amber. Or the mark of his hand on the gray wood that no paint covers. It was like the wine bottle she threw, always bleeding thru white paint. Or the mist hanging in the torn oak branches behind the dusty shutters where she heard thunder, felt lightning tear the branches, felt his body coil into her skin, a dream she was sure the next morning like all she’s lost, her skin like pale flowers, a mother who thought there was nothing she couldn’t do, a father who was never there         lyn lifshin	THE MAD GIRL LONGS FOR DESIRE BUT IS TERRIFIED OF IT for days in Austin when her skin felt on fire, scorch marks from where his body grazed her skin. It was one thing to lure him, flirt outragedly on paper. 3 AM in the wet Texas air, her hair curling like she hated while he told her how his mother plunged into Niagara Falls, told her what heĠd never said to anyone. Now she dreads April with green coming back, trillium pushing thru the dead leaves, thru damage, thru this deadness she wanted to take her in its arms and waltz her into oblivion         lyn lifshin__	DAYS AFTER THE YELLOW BUTTERFLIES the goose on the nest same place as last year the first violets, honey suckle, crows, a cinnamon smell near the olives red wing black bird slash of color in the grey         lyn lifshin__ ©Jasminas feather dress woman by Corina T.v.M.