Claire Askew's poem from our online magazine. Check it out to read the full poem!

 

"By now, I'm used to glancing at your face
and seeing you've stolen my mouth.
There are years between us, but like a twin
I know if it's you on the line
from the phone's first ring.  
Only Mum and the cat can tell apart
the turn of our tongues.  
Hearing you speak on tape can stop me dead:
my voice in a box from someone else's throat.

You're the mirror I can never turn to the wall –
an echo of me, only better.  To live with you
is to live with vivid, twenty-four-seven deja-vu.  
One night, I saw our four enormous feet
propped up and crossed on the coffee table rim,
and felt in awe.  You told me once
that as a child you were never sure if I was real,
or some invented friend you daydreamed up.
Nowadays, I pinch myself to check..."

 

Edgar Allen Poe weeps into the clover as he remembers his beautiful dead cousin. Mary Shelley ponders the wildflowers as she thinks up how to stitch up a Frankenstein.

Your two favorite writers from the Romantic age on a set of two cards with hand drawn illustrations and delicate pressed flowers. Comes with two matching envelopes and packed with all the particular care of a archival librarian.

James Joyce raises an eyebrow at the forget-me-nots and fears the Lotus-Eaters will be coming soon. Virginia Woolf examines her bouquets of dry rose and Japanese maple leaves as she wonders if Mrs. Dalloway bought the flowers herself.

Your two favorite stream-of-consciousness writers on a set of two cards with hand drawn illustrations and delicate pressed flowers. Comes with two matching envelopes and packed with all the particular care of a archival librarian.

 

Length: 5.5 inches, Width: 4.25 inches