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Poetry || SubmissionsQui es in CaelisBy Ben Passikoff My father tailored me along with other clothes caressed with cool curled fingers, but for customers; pressed heat into the winter wool and summer stripes in fourteen hour days; equated creases with satanic hiss of steam press, prettying lapels like arranged hothouse petals, with daily curving shoulders, fingers turning claws, and feet undoing body structure. Old country humble, bargaining in undershirt for vital pennyshine and sustenance for growing bone of me. Long hours after soup his eyes mesmeric traveled over ancient ink by lemonyellow gas jet till electric lit the bedbugs, sunned the arcane corners. My father souled me, fatherly wived one, spawned five, died fingering imagined threads, unrequiemed, except by fathers. Ben Passikoff: Retired industrial engineer. Poems printed in a horde of mags, including: Quarterly Review of Literature, Harvard Review, Poetry International, Atlanta Review, European Judaism, and others. Today's Situation
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