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Posts Tagged ‘Diane Kendig’

Prison Terms

September 3, 2009 1 comment

From the 2009 qarrtsiluni chapbook contest finalist Prison Terms, by Diane Kendig

None here thinks a pink slip
…is underwear. None here says, ‘lingerie’
or ‘as it were.’

—William Matthews

Flat time, like a flat rate, is non-negotiable.
It is what you served on no platter, after you,
— not your cover, which was already blown —
were turned down the last time for parole,
a word that used to mean, “word of honor”
and now means, “sooner, but conditional,”
or “man, you are booking,” not to say “booked,”
the start, often, of a very long sentence with no syntax,
though we don’t know that as we are strung along.

When we read your bail amount,
nearly doubled at arraignment,
we could only reason, a typo, but when we spoke
to you about it, by phone, through the milky Plexiglas,
you told us they printed it exactly as announced in court
in no uncertain terms, though capriciousness
came to mind then and in the months since.
I don’t think of these words as terms of art
or anything I can come to terms with
any time soon.

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“Prison Terms” first appeared in J Journal: New Writing on Justice, Spring 2009.

Diane Kendig has three chapbooks, most recently Greatest Hits, 1978-2000. Her writing has appeared in journals such as Colere, Minnesota Review, Mid-America, and Slant, and several new anthologies. A Midwesterner at heart, she is currently writing out of place in Lynn, Massachusetts. Find her on the web at dianekendig.com.

Sippo Lake

June 26, 2008 1 comment

No larger than a tiddly wink
it would leave only a mist,
land empty in a small cup.
Still, it claims our attention.
One winter a neighbor boy drowned
under the shrunken flat white disk;
often summers when nightfall
renders the sky all colors,
mirrors two worlds from one,
sun running over
I can still hear his mother say
she lives by that light.

by Diane Kendig

Read by Beth Adams — Download the MP3

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Butterflies: How and Why

November 5, 2007 2 comments

As well confuse moths with mouths
as with these lips that chap to chrysalis.
Inside a milky saliva thickens.
At the end, no silky escape, but a storm:
Crack, a blood rain, and the mouths
stagger out. They stutter by day
and when they stop, purse themselves,
the rich silent type, unlike moths
which flutter by night and light open,
more generous relations,
willing to tell everyone.

by Diane Kendig

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