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The Last Rose

By Sinead Tyrone

The last rose stands sentinel

beside your driveway, eagerly awaits

your return. It does not know

you are gone. Your books cry out

for their reader. The spices in your kitchen

long to be shaken into some new,

adventurous dish. Your map of Ireland

is desperate for you to plan another trip.

The Japanese pond wants clearing,

answering machine announces

you have eight new calls,

and I feel like the invader

I am protecting your house against

as I walk through hallowed rooms.

SINEAD TYRONE lives in Cheektowaga. This is her first published poem.



By Carlie Clark Nikolai

You are nine years gone, My Love,

As is my love, as well.

What remains I pour into the vials we created,

And the bouquet lingers in my nostrils, ever-present.

I conjure it up on spring mornings

As I pull the weeds and scour the stone,

Tracing my fingers through the water-darkened script:


CARLIE CLARK NIKOLAI lives in Cheektowaga

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