by Carol Casey The path is trodden, dusty, level.You know it will take youwhere many have gone. Step off—tangles of brambles,sometimes with blackberries,more often with little clawsthat catch on clothes and skin;and tortuous tree roots—inconvenient, sacred data unearthed—subterranean snakelets somehowsifted into snarls for feet to catch.There are stems that twine…
by Cynthia Roby Boomerang was Sadie’s man, and he got his name by definition: Every time she threw the lying cheater out, she’d cry, howl, and moan, all before that need-to-satisfy ache in her groin pried her thighs apart and let her Boomer back in—until the dag-gone fool never returned….
by Cynthia Roby Faltered Footwear Deflated and dusty soles, desert-dry tongue, aglets in a state of postmortem rigidity, eyelets ringed in jaundice-yellow. Our walks, our past, now in permanent cessation. The miles we traveled, the combing through, the crushing of, autumn leaves. From beneath the table you spied me sway,…
By Cynthia Roby When your lust is done with me I’m gonna need a hearse. I’m tired, dry. You have twisted and turned my hips pushed and pulled and stretched my thighs planted snatches of hair in my pillow loved me in every which way a woman can be put…