I did post about the beautiful review of Rooted and Winged by Elizabeth Gauffreau in the new issue of Anti-Heroin Chic. Now Liz has recorded a poem from the book–and it’s such a treat! She published it on her post with her link of the review.

I did post about the beautiful review of Rooted and Winged by Elizabeth Gauffreau in the new issue of Anti-Heroin Chic. Now Liz has recorded a poem from the book–and it’s such a treat! She published it on her post with her link of the review.
So excited to see such a beautiful review of Rooted and Winged by Elizabeth Gauffreau in the new issue of Anti-Heroin Chic. A big thank you also to editor James Diaz.
You can find the review here: http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/luanne-castles-rooted-and-winged-reviewed-by-elizabeth-gauffreau
See below image for update on Perry.
Perry’s ultrasound showed that he definitely has either IBD or lymphoma. Our decision was narrowed down to starting steroids or having investigative surgery. A complication is that he has recently developed a heart murmur so nothing can be done (except food change nightmare) until after his echocardiogram which is after Christmas! If you are a praying person, please put us on your list. Or send healing vibes or demands to the universe that this is IBD and that the steroids will make him well!
A big thank you to Editor James Diaz of the really fun lit mag Anti-Heroin Chic who has published my poems “Into Pulp” and “Scrap” in their latest issue.
The first poem is a response to someone else’s vintage photograph. I don’t have permission to post the photo, but here is a link: Wrecked archive image
The first poem begins this way:
Into Pulp
Lakewater pushes at my ankles
toes slicing an evanescent path
I’m at an age where I think I’m at the age
and I don’t imagine eyerolls
where I sense time abrading my surface
like this constantly moving water
stones and minnows distort into segments
molecules into a variety of atomic individuals
two purple, no, one hairbrush, a plastic ball
a swaying branch, leaves decaying
the insides of my grandmothers’ fridges
bubble and pop into shards of memory
The second poem, “Scrap,” relates to my memoir of the same name.
One of my father’s magical monstrosities
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