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Jennifer Barber-II

L. B.





Only sparrows in the oak

and a hooded crow, exotic to me,


a two-toned back, gray over black.


The undersides of leaves

like mirrors.


“A couple of weeks or months,”

his doctor predicted in July.


“Sometimes we’re wrong.”





A week ago, Outside

was still part of him,


around the building and back

with one of us or more.


Today, in the window,

in the trees,


soundless collisions

of light and dark


impossible to divide,

the addictive, flickering


play of the leaves’ shadows

over the ground.





He calls the Oxycodon



Ativan is Atta Boy.


How does it go, the verse about

the sun not striking us


by day, nor the moon by night?



On Morphine, His Last Words


I have to be there by noon


Here is my forehead,

here is my jaw


Thanks for the visitation, kids


Are these my eyes

underneath my hand?