Poetry - Issue 09 | May 2010

Two poems by Jacqueline West


To a Friend in Alaska

From a kitchen table, McKinley is impossible.
Hard to believe in the white mass of polar bears,
in whales’ ancient songs along the ice floe.

The Northern Lights stop here now and then
like Vegas entertainers on layover, dangling
their reluctant ribbons over the sodium lamps,
and I think of you on the still-warm hood of a car;
I think of you reaching out a hand that comes back
pink and green, and covered with stars.

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About the author

Jacqueline West lives amid the bluffs of eastern Minnesota.  Her favorite trips involve opportunities to explore crumbly old cemeteries and drink lots of unusual coffee. Her work has appeared in places such as flashquake, Inkwell Journal, The Pedestal Magazine, and St. Ann’s Review. You can find Jacqueline here.

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