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Fay Dillof

Mystic, CT

As if in an airport terminal—                

all her friends departed—her own flight 


my mother watches strangers. 

Asks again for the time.

Loses track of it. Wants to be more

than merely waiting.         

Clutches her bag.       

Where again are her glasses?

Checks around her

to make sure she still has              

what she still has.

Touches again the bridge of her nose.

The top of her head.


Mystic, CT



                  She calls her useless right hand, flopped at her side,

       my almost-dead fish, but––

                                               her words, an effort,

        slurred––all I hear for certain is my almost,

           like our decades-long near-miss of love.

                 In my memory of thi­­s––

                                                                     it’s late

                                       November, almost dark, and we’re outside––my eyes, tearing

                                                                     from the wind which, tearing across the river

                                                                                                    reaches me. It reaches me

                                                                         but only after it’s gone

miles without touching anything.

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Fay Dillof’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Best New Poets, New England Review, Ploughshares, Gettysburg Review, Beloit Poetry Journal,  Rattle, New Ohio Review, Blackbird, Plume, and elsewhere. A recipient of scholarships from Bread Loaf and Sewanee, Fay has been awarded the Milton Kessler Memorial Prize in Poetry and the Dogwood Literary Prize. Fay lives with her husband and daughter in Northern California where she works as a psychotherapist.

Bear Review


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