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Jilted A woman in a peach slip-- remember slips?--sitting on the bed’s edge reads a piece of paper held like a tray: thumbs on top, fingers underneath. A lover’s note of apology? The docent says train schedule. I am old enough to know, yes, they looked like that. The hotel room a spare but complicated space—it is a Hopper, after all. Absorbed by what she reads, the woman--Jo, his wife, again that docent-- sits framed within a frame. Her day clothes laid with care across the chair, suitcase and valise unopened where she dropped them, the yellow window shade three-quarters down against the flat black night. Kicked-off heels her one untidy moment as she undressed, sat to read, lamplight illuminating her thighs. Wendy Hawken Wendy Hawken: "I live on a grass farm in the northern Shenandoah Valley where the weather means more than what clothes to wear. In 2005 I earned an MFA in Poetry at Warren Wilson College’s Program for Writers, decades after a BA in English literature. Previous publications include three chapbooks plus two full collections, The Luck of Being (2008) and White Bird (2017) a sequence about my husband’s battle with cancer."
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January 2026
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