VOLUME 3: ISSUE 4
WINTER 2026

Poetry

“Vignette”

Since Harold’s partner died first,
I’m gifted his antique Flow Blue teapot,
sugar, creamer, which I keep
next to the porcelain pitcher where
my father’s wooden paintbrushes show
their bristles like little bud-brooms.
These sit atop a thick, large navy splatter-
ware plate I threw at Bennington
more than forty years ago.

What remains? I recall the feel of wet clay,
sitting at the wheel, centering myself.

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