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TRUTH IS,

by connie wasem scott

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you won’t know what to do, how to carry the bag

in your chest, the one filled with sand as if you need traction to get

out of the jam you’re in. Step one is to scour the sky

for a cloud that even remotely resembles

your brother’s hand, even if it’s like a hand

rolled up by death. Breathe deeply while you search,

and soon, your heart may quiet, not quiet the way

he lay lifeless when you last left him, like pond-water

quiet, crack-of-dawn quiet. Alive, just not making

a ruckus about it. At this point, with your best

I once sang in the church choir voice, break

a loud focoso free from your chest and 

curse those damned gods in the heavens for paring him down

like a shriveled potato in the first place, d.c. al coda

the hell out of that song, repeating as often as you need,

to hell with the damnation you once feared might rain down

from above. You’re not in a Sophocles play, so

belt it out like a lightning bolt. Take another deep breath,

then tether your gaze on the nearest tree (get creative if no trees

are around you – a fire escape or a smokestack will do), really

latch on with your gaze, the way a stubborn homeowner,

refusing to evacuate a hurricane, clings for dear life

to a lamp post. Stay there like his body will stay

when he’s scattered next to that fallen tree in the Rockies.

Let those clutched hands of your eyes trace the lines

of that tree from the base where it sits, to the tiniest

twig at the top.  Rest there for a minute, think how

your perspective looking up is a world different

from the view looking down. That’s

how it’s going to be from now on.

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Connie Wasem Scott lives in Spokane, WA, where she teaches a range of English classes at Spokane Falls Community College and enjoys the great outdoors with her Aussie-American husband. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in CITRON, Shore Poetry, Streetlight, Minerva Rising, Cathexis Northwest, and elsewhere.

© 2004-2025 All Rights Reserved. American Poetry Journal

The American Poetry Journal (APJ) is back and online only for now! Theresa Senato Edwards has taken over the reins as of April 21, 2025. Unfortunately, Theresa did not get much info on past submissions, except that all submissions were responded to. She queried about the anthology, chapbook, full-length submissions, and any upcoming online issues; but the same response was given to her: that all submissions were responded to. Theresa was not able to obtain access to the old APJ Submittable account either. She requested access but was told that the APJ Submittable account was unavailable. Theresa was not a part of the mess that transpired from 2022 to 2024, approximately. And she is sorry that she doesn't have additional news about much of the past submissions as well as submission fees. She asked for financial statements but was not given any. For now the website has been updated with issue and review archives, and we will go from there. Theresa apologizes that she doesn't have more to share and hopes that all her literary citizenship and fine literary reputation over the years will help APJ move positively forward, despite all the disappointment. Theresa will try her best to regain APJ's transparency, passion, and commitment to poets and poetry.​

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