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Grey Sparrow Journal and Press, as of January 31, 2018 will move to

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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The Minister’s Last Morning


 “He asked me, 'Why?’ I just said I was sorry.”

                                                                   —Mary Winkler



In Tennessee, morning clouded. Gray light fell

as the dirt-water day began its crawl, crib to tomb.

But whatever the secrets, the house can’t tell.


The young wife lifted the shotgun, loaded with shell.

            Blank as a child, she’d tell the court she felt a strange boom

as the morning clouded, and gray light fell


through the ruffled bedrooms the girls knew so well.

How much did they hear as his red back bloomed?

Whatever the secrets, the house can’t tell.


His parents keep the girls, but fear soon she’ll

walk free—a brief sentence gaveled in the courtroom.

When the morning clouded and gray light fell,


if she’d endured forced sex, pain towering well

beyond rage against the man who was her groom—

whatever the secrets, the house can’t tell.  


She buckled the girls in, slammed the door like a cell.

The phone ripped free, he finished bleeding in their room.

Outside, the morning clouded and gray light fell

on whatever secrets the house can’t tell.

                                     -Amie Sharp 



The Evening and the Morning

Grand Canyon



When radiance fell on the water-sculpted

gorge as if night-panes had dropped


from the sky, first sunlight climbing

the chasm’s high side, we saw the whole


of the jagged valley lit before us

as if legions of titans had carved


these stacks of reddish-brown ridges

into temples now named for Solomon,


Isis, Shiva—their shovels a rumble

as the echo unrolled across the flat-lands,


and the sand fell down like rain.

And when the moon slung its crescent


against the evening, the pinnacled shadows

watchtowers against the cascading


night, we saw ourselves as specks

of canyon-shadow—miniscule much


too long a word to describe us.


                                 -Amie Sharp 




My most beautiful student doesn’t know

her own nascent splendor.

Her freshman classmates see a face

stamped with freckles, not the way  


those brown specks frame hazel eyes, each

impressionist dot random

and precise. They note a thickness of limbs,

not a numinous blooming grace.


The boys look past her to the slender.

She surveys their horseplay,

and raises her hand with a question of England

in Shakespeare’s time—eyes light


and sharp as she fills her paper with squiggles

about the fiery monarch and her

infamous will. She doesn’t fidget when she stands

alone in front of the class to read


her favorite poem, a pink clip clasping

her burnished red hair. She gathers

her books to leave and shimmers

her singular beauty all through the school.


                                                      -Amie Sharp