Unlikely 2.0


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Editors' Notes

Maria Damon and Michelle Greenblatt
Jim Leftwich and Michelle Greenblatt
Sheila E. Murphy and Michelle Greenblatt

A Visual Conversation on Michelle Greenblatt's ASHES AND SEEDS with Stephen Harrison, Monika Mori | MOO, Jonathan Penton and Michelle Greenblatt

Letters for Michelle: with work by Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, Jeffrey Side, Larry Goodell, mark hartenbach, Charles J. Butler, Alexandria Bryan and Brian Kovich

Visual Poetry by Reed Altemus
Poetry by Glen Armstrong
Poetry by Lana Bella
A Eulogic Poem by John M. Bennett
Elegic Poetry by John M. Bennett
Poetry by Wendy Taylor Carlisle
A Eulogy by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Joel Chace
A Spoken Word Poem and Visual Art by K.R. Copeland
A Eulogy by Alan Fyfe
Poetry by Win Harms
Poetry by Carolyn Hembree
Poetry by Cindy Hochman
A Eulogy by Steffen Horstmann
A Eulogic Poem by Dylan Krieger
An Elegic Poem by Dylan Krieger
Visual Art by Donna Kuhn
Poetry by Louise Landes Levi
Poetry by Jim Lineberger
Poetry by Dennis Mahagin
Poetry by Peter Marra
A Eulogy by Frankie Metro
A Song by Alexis Moon and Jonathan Penton
Poetry by Jay Passer
A Eulogy by Jonathan Penton
Visual Poetry by Anne Elezabeth Pluto and Bryson Dean-Gauthier
Visual Art by Marthe Reed
A Eulogy by Gabriel Ricard
Poetry by Alison Ross
A Short Movie by Bernd Sauermann
Poetry by Christopher Shipman
A Spoken Word Poem by Larissa Shmailo
A Eulogic Poem by Jay Sizemore
Elegic Poetry by Jay Sizemore
Poetry by Felino A. Soriano
Visual Art by Jamie Stoneman
Poetry by Ray Succre
Poetry by Yuriy Tarnawsky
A Song by Marc Vincenz


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Three Poems by Lyn Lifshin

The Woman Reading Tea Leaves

"you will feel intensely but
not for long." I think how my Greek
date's face paled. Did I, even then,
believe her? That wildness, hysterical
nearly, all zing and pizzazz as
Balanchine's rubies. Are you
surprised it's my birthstone? Too
often I am that woman in red shoes,
obsessed to breathless, dancing in
to fires and scorching lips, hips and
hair. Too much burns like a building
on fire. Heel walks, wagging hips
and pelvic thrusts and heel stomps.
If I seem demur, hardly explosive,
not even a garnet close enough
to touch what's under my hair




That Was Friday, Wasn't It?

That Christmas Eve you picked
me up in the green Sable, stopped
for a rose. Union Street, glitter
of snow on old snow. Crushed
stars. "In love," the vendor
smiled. That night, deep in your
warm house, laughing voices
on the radio and unpacking
ornaments near the fire. A gold
scroll, dangling crystal, wooden
bears: a history of your life
with other women and your girls.
My first gorgeous real tree.
I never imagined I'd be adding
to those balls, ceramic horses,
iridescent tear drop balls, mice
under pulled up covers dreaming
of cheese. Or, that years later
we wouldn't bother




What Was It That December Then?

It was before you didn't
call me cat ever again.
My mother's call, insistent
as posts on FaceBook and
your daughter's groan, "oh
yuck," when walking thru
wet snow for a Christmas
tree you said "I think
I'll be Jewish so I won't
have to go thru this again."
I said nothing but thought
of my mother saying, "Lyn,
they’ll always throw being
Jewish up in your face
if something goes wrong."
It wasn't the first year
we'd trimmed the tree to-
gether. This time none
of the balls seemed as bright


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Lyn LifshinLyn Lifshin's Another Woman Who Looks Like Me was published by Black Sparrow in 2006 and selected for the 2007 Paterson Award for Literary Excellence. Also out in 2006 was The Licorice Daughter: My Year with Ruffian from Texas Review Press. Lifshin's recent books include Before It's Light (Black Sparrow, 2000), Cold Comfort (Black Sparrow, 1997), In Mirrors (Presa Press), Upstate: An Unfinished Story (Foot Hills) and The Daughter I Don't Have (Plan B Press). Her poems have appeared in most literary and poetry magazines and she is the subject of a film, Lyn Lifshin: Not Made of Glass, from Women Make Movies. Her web site is www.lynlifshin.com.