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Amanda North

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The loneliest feeling, she said on a day

when the sky was clear, is watching an airplane

fly away,

 

and in the middle of Valentine Texas

a single machine mends

railroad tracks,

cracks splinter form

 

while buzzards string

red remains over gravel lanes.

 

Before, she created still-life with oil paint

and after she drank while wrinkles set.

 

The horizon is only purple mountains and lone

windmills, when desolation surrounds

will it eventually

entrap?

 

A pecan orchard sits heavy on this desert land,

if it is pollution that makes the sky

shades of pink

then I want that inside my lungs.

 

All dirt trails branch like veins into strangers

homes. We will finish alone.

If creeks ever existed atop this sand

then each left with the Mexican wolves.

 

Her spine fell westward

with her mind

and she forgot our names,

we try to reconcile our anger.

 

Cacti survive droughts

then burst fuchsia flowers,

what a hope,

could anyone do any better?

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Amanda North grew up in El Paso and currently lives in Austin, Texas. Her poems have been published in The Learned Pig and Yew Journal. She was a scholar at the 2014 Poetry at Round Top festival and is currently seeking publication for her first collection, We Are All Mad Here. She teaches in the English Department at Texas State University where she also received her MFA.