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Leah Stewart

Leah is a poetess and writer as well as a freelance proofreader/editor living in Rochester, NY. She has published a chapbook of her work with a second in-progress, and is also currently editing and compiling an anthology of poetry from several other writers. In her spare time, she has a job at Borders Books. No, she doesn't spend any time away from the written word. She has taken it with her when she has lived abroad in places such as Quebec City, Quebec; Sevilla, Spain; and Jeonju, S. Korea.

After Abel

At harvest, we brought offerings.
Laid cross-wise with the grain, each of my sheaves
mingled gold with green.
His lamb chewed the tips,
left them to sag drooped to the ground,
defiled them.

And my altar coughed rheumatic smoke—
grey and black twined about me
as they pulled downward
against the soft white puffs rising from his.

In a bleat, my vision flooded with red;
I staggered blindly past, pounded
my feet into the ground,
howled like the wolf.

It was done in a moment;
he laid crosswise as the wheat had,
motionless.
I burned in a perfect pyre.

The color leached from our mother's face
when she heard, and she begged the Lord
to see that red leak back inside.

Copyright ©2007 by Leah Stewart