Catherine Pierce




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Catherine Pierce

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Catherine Pierce is the author of The Tornado Is the World (forthcoming in 2016), The Girls of Peculiar (Saturnalia 2012), Famous Last Words (Saturnalia 2008), and a chapbook, Animals of Habit (Kent State 2004). Her poems have appeared in The Best American Poetry (2015 and 2011), Slate, Boston Review, Ploughshares, FIELD, Indiana Review, Ninth Letter, Court Green, Crab Orchard Review, Blackbird, Gulf Coast, Barrow Street, Mid-American Review, Crazyhorse, and elsewhere. She holds an M.F.A from Ohio State, a Ph.D. from the University of Missouri, and now lives in Starkville, MS, where she co-directs the creative writing program at Mississippi State University.

Average rating: 4.38 · 226 ratings · 37 reviews · 5 distinct works
The Girls of Peculiar

4.52 avg rating — 66 ratings — published 2012 — 2 editions
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Famous Last Words

4.24 avg rating — 70 ratings — published 2008
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The Tornado Is the World

4.70 avg rating — 30 ratings
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Animals of Habit (Wick Poet...

4.67 avg rating — 18 ratings — published 2004 — 5 editions
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Apocalypse Now: Poems and P...

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4.07 avg rating — 42 ratings — published 2012 — 4 editions
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“Then I learned that we’re born
with more bones than we die with.”
Catherine Pierce

“The Quiet Girls"

Were we never wolves? No, we never were.
We never let ourselves be lured into a lair.
We never licked honey off an eyetooth

just for the sweet. We never swallowed
our own blood with the honey. We were
neither animal nor stone. We were ephemeral,

motes in light, breath in winter. Drifting
was safe travel; we knew it then, and we were right.
The earth slowed its spinning and we stayed on.

Trenches yawned, and we skirted them. We survived
the meteor shower—no fragments fell on us.
Still we float like spores, always aloft and away.”
Catherine Pierce

“The Geek Girls

Were we never robins? No, we never were.
No one recognized spring in us, though great elms
grew inside our rib cages. They pushed their spiny

tips outward, so that we felt small stabbings daily,
but they never broke through. So we were never spring,
never foliage. We were the small and oddball beasts:

anoles, silverfish, shrimp. We moved fast and sideways,
upways, allways but straight. We heard of nights lit
with lightning bugs and cigarettes. With rumflame

and tonguefire. We needed none of it. The nights were
black puzzleboxes and we solved them. It was easy—
in the darkness, our minds sparked like flint.”
Catherine Pierce

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Goodreads Sci-Fi/...: Apocalypse Now: Poems and Prose from the End of Days 2 26 Dec 26, 2012 08:52AM  



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