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We haunt our aisles

wheeled sardines purr disgorging economic units sale ends Sunday registers quiver bags take their silent prey and halls of mirrors groan coins rest in a dampened palm beneath her fingernails gold coffee grit bearing the price of suburban peace and absent joy we haunt our aisles © 2014 Rod Benson

An Easter poem by Steve Turner

Have you ever wondered why shops often feature nativity scenes in the lead-up to Christmas, but not crucifixion scenes at Easter?  Poet Steve Turner has thought about this, and here’s what he had to say: Christmas is really for the children. Especially for children who like animals, stables, stars and […]