Summer 2000


Joy Hewitt Mann


Even Death is seeking love, wants
that joy, that
feeling that the heart will burst
and blood run warm into the dark.

Here the birds are singing desperate notes
scrambling in a wheal of dust, looking
like violence is being done.
A woman up the street
had boyfriend number six move in this week.
He'll last three months, as did the rest. But love
is never timed like boiled eggs, or those
that bird lays in her nest.

What we seek: a
carbonation of the blood.
a flinging off, a flying up, a
scrambling in the dark.
Lips to lips, hearts
clinging like Death, who's

in the movies
seeking love.

Joy Hewitt Mann, after publishing in print for ten years, has ventured into online publication with work most recently on The Paumonok Review, Poetry Now and Rose and Thorn. She is this years winner of the Acorn-Rukeyser Award.


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