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Night Highway  by Barbara Koons
Night Highway

Praise for Night Highway:

"This is a gentle book, a haunted book that lays out its attendant images of childhood, the wedding dress, the "red current between us" of family and death. Down the night highway of loss, this book is a long time coming. And worth the wait."
Alice Friman

"Barbara Koons' poems possess a clarity of wisdom that is rare these days in poetry. No flashy pyrotechnics here, just an abundance of heart and spirit."
Allison Joseph

"Barbara Koons' Night Highway takes us down a road of flickering shadows and haunting landscapes. Even when an embrace turns into a paper memory in this ghostly land of snowdrifts and empty houses, the emotion continues deep and true. These are brave poems of distilled loss, spare and elegant and as 'silhouettes cut from folded paper.'"
Maura Stanton

Barbara Koons The daughter of an artist and a musician, Barbara Koons grew up in Mansfield, Ohio, where she began her writing career as a reporter and feature writer for the Mansfield News-Journal. She also has worked as a free-lance journalist, editor, and teacher. A non-traditional student, she earned her BA in English and MFA in Poetry at Indiana University after her children were grown.

An active volunteer with the Writers' Center of Indiana for nearly 20 years, she served as events co-ordinator and also as director of the Poetry In The Gallery reading series sponsored jointly with the Indianapolis Museum of Art.

Her poems have appeared in Crazyhorse, Earth's Daughters, The Flying Island, The Hopewell Review and other publications. She has received a number of awards for her poetry, including semi-finalist status in the "Discovery"/The Nation Competition in 2003. Night Highway is the first collection of her poems.
excerpts
On the Night Highway

At midnight, winter sky
looses its summer transparency
in vapor trails riding
either side of the moon,

as if a lone vehicle has rolled
on giant wheels
across a vast black field.

The air is so still
I can hear silent bells
rusting in deserted churches,
their naves empty
of all salvation.

Sometimes
I drive all night
just because
I don't want to sleep alone,

trying to understand loss,
the hour never found
on the face of every clock.



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