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By Alexis Fedorjaczenko

Sometimes I’m late — I don’t make time for poems, or I don’t bleed, or my husband waits by the front door while I’m still brushing my hair, painting my lips, tending to feminine things. Meanwhile I’m releasing eggs, thin jelly strands of hope and poem seeds into the universe to breed. I picture them like pearly octopus strands, more like spider’s webs than chicken’s eggs, woven and not laid. Life travels so fast and when we’re lucky they ripen, drop like wet fertilizing fruit into the slipstream of life.


Alexis Fedorjaczenko has lived in an old paper mill, spent fifteen months camping the American west, and now makes home on a hilltop in Massachusetts. She holds an MFA from Western CT State University, and an MPH from Yale University.


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