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“Poems On the Odds” continues at the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. We’re publishing new poems every other day. On the odd days, ya’ll!
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Published so far:

April 1 Daishi Miyazaki
April 3 Jason Ozolins
April 5 Sam Eagle
April 7 Andy Major
April 9 Trisha Hart
April 11 Torrance Stephens
April 13 Bruce Fuller.
April 15 Maria Nazos
April 17 Ellen Kombiyil
April 19 Geoff Balme

Yet to come:

April 21 Kevin Blankenship, former Dead Mule Poetry Co-Editor
April 23 Clare L. Martin – A Mini-Chapbook – Growing Into Myself
April 25 Felicia Mitchell – A Chapbook – There Is No Map
April 27 Scott Owens – A Chapbook – Deceptively Like a Sound
April 29 Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda, the Poet Laureate of Virginia

While you’re at the Mule, don’t forget to scroll down under Poetry for previously published poems and to click on Fiction and Essays to read some excellent prose.

Mules rule!!! Mules rule!!! Mules rule!!!

The many contradictions in our lives – such as being home while feeling homeless, being busy while feeling bored, being popular while feeling lonely, being believers while feeling many doubts – can frustrate, irritate, and even discourage us. They make us feel that we are never fully present. Every door that opens for us makes us see how many more doors are closed.

But there is another response. These same contradictions can bring us into touch with a deeper longing, for the fulfillment of a desire that lives beneath all desires and that only God can satisfy. Contradictions, thus understood, create the friction that can help us move toward God.

It was a dream like no other
with Pam and me in a tree-house.
We had a small, brown blanket. There was
more than one door to enter the room.
Each door had at least one latch.
Yet the stairs and the landing had
no railing at all: nothing to keep us from
falling into the sky

or down to the ground with a thud.
It was a scene like never before.
Not that we were children in it,
nor that it was evening. Not that
Pam decided to go down
before it got dark, nor that Michael was
standing, yelling, on the ground. No, no,
it was Bill—
who, sleeping now beside me, planned to
shoot me with Cupid’s sharp arrow,

because he loved me. And I, being
the child that I was, took him literally.

first published in Domicile

April 2008
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