Tag Archives: Tyler Gadaire

Unsent Letter

Mother, I’ve not always loved you the way a son should; I’ve choked on your name, roiled your bones.             Spurn has grown like weeds in my chest, a greenhouse             rotted, curses burrowed like worms under wet rock. I’m the graft … Continue reading

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My Mother’s Scrapbook

used to have ivory trim around the front cover, small delicate etchings, lines like calligraphy, the center image a plain slab of navy blue, almost wine. It had ten or eleven pages of my sister and me, photos of us … Continue reading

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Just Before Leaving

for Massachusetts and another vacation to see Nana on her horse farm, or Grandmother on her taut, frigid lake, I should be thinking about Brimfield’s Flea Markets and the claustrophobic mile of tents & antique clocks, hand-cut fruits – stalks … Continue reading

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Grief Ghazal

            “The death of a beloved is an amputation.”                         ― C.S. Lewis Late June at Gram’s usually means 5 a.m. wake-ups, red-winged blackbirds, Natural American Spirit & Dunkin’s. This year, it meant watching my Grandfather die in his sleep. The Hospice … Continue reading

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Elegy for My Childhood Home

I don’t go back expecting a grave; I expect to see lupines – violet, sweet blue – behind the grass-laced dirt hill. I expect to see the shedding of pine trees under our homemade swings, odd planks of wood left … Continue reading

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Brand

            “I still had two friends, but they were trees.”             —Larry Levis In the off-white, sheetrocked corner of my room when I visit my house in the brief cracks of time between spring and fall, I sit on my worn futon … Continue reading

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