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Death in the Spicerack

by W.M. Stahl

I saw it only once
            couched
Between the parsley flakes
And a box of cloves,
Just to the left of the basil,
Wet and dark,
Tearing with needle teeth
And tiny baby hands
At a bulb of garlic.
It happened just after
The news of a death in
My family had come
Scampering out of the telephone
And on past my ear.

 

W.M. Stahl is writing full time. He is working concurrently on poems, short fictions, a novel and occasionally churning out an article, “to pacify my creditors.” (Spring 1975)


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