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Original artwork by Katie M. Zeigler


Edith Friedman

Within my throat a flutter will not be stilled.



“Wispy quality—?”


“You sound terrible!”


“Ma’am, let me explain this one-time offer.”



Dithering still who I would be, and already some essentials of me departed.

Identified all stresses, combed their hair mornings, offered them orange juice.

Turning a mother voice on and off. Slow at saying some things

in America. Regret never singing in a rock band.



As if:


inside my mother’s old harpsichord a key might flutter on its own, mystery

red felt

white bone plectrum

jammed ajar.



Did it. Done to. Door                                 



As if:


leaping sudden toward its latch