by Chris Litsey One said that poems were like music Our ancestors sang into our souls. The other was captivated by the tendrilsOf fate she found herself bound within. He was obsessed too, Obsessive to a fault, Finding faults in the failings of frail cards, Guided by the incessant turnings of midnight readings. She…
by Chris Litsey One said that poems were like music Our ancestors sang into our souls. The other was captivated by the tendrilsOf fate she found herself bound within. He was obsessed too, Obsessive to a fault, Finding faults in the failings of frail cards, Guided by the incessant turnings of midnight readings. She…
by Anna Dodson August was quiet this year.My evening chamomile seepedoutside, the figs lappedthe sky like pea blossom and lemon juice.The glass, a white diamondrefracting all that quiet on the gloom. I miss you most of all, my darling.Heat fogged the window like two lovers in the backseat,jazz flute on…
by Andrew Furst i am not wanting light. but i warm to it, moving with the situations towards the angels i’ve been looking for. equaling the coastline and the sparkling worldliness of sunsets the new year tries to rebuild me as springtime meadows are constructing summer out of the long…
by Chris Litsey My outlines were drawn in with horse hoovesAnd fleur-de-lis stabbings, tinging the linesWith a ruddy, rusty coloring that reminds meOf my blurred, wavy reflection of the wide,Wild river I called home, but the effectsOf the Commonwealth never seeped pastThe bold lines that could be made outFrom farther…
by Anna Dodson A part of me thinks I loved you mostthat summer. Amid sickness and in health,we took the furthest parking spot,then plundered empty grocery aisles. Each with our own mini-shopping cartto parallel-play in hoodies and shorts,we blocked an entire row. You said,“Aren’t we being so domestic?” You stood…
by Andrew Furst it strikes me how people who want to stay the same have to change so much. so much, that the tides seem to move with them, a busy kind of inertia. i’ve seen them happy, i’m sure of it. cleaning their gutters and mowing their lawns. savoring…
by Alex Carrigan After Erik Fuhrer. For Cici Cooper, Scream 2 (1997) Sober Sistersitting on thesofa surfing channelspast the static,suppressingthe silence ofthe sorority house.Sober Sistersacrifices a nightof shots, slipsof tongues in kisses,sentimental momentsof a sorority life.Sober Sisterspeaks on the phoneto a stranger,stumped to findshe’s specifiedto die tonight.Sober Sister,sinner in the…
by Peter Mladinic No, you’re not bothering me at all. Waiter, another coffee. It’s open-ended.All I say, all my narrator says is Annaand Gurov went on meeting in hotelsin various cities. They can’t be togetheras a married couple, but they can betogether. Alive and willing to rendezvousat times, in places of…
by Stasha Powell Even then, I wrote delusions, nightmares easier to slip into than face the truth. I traced perfect curves on crooked lines, lost in the rhythm, losing time, punctuation a casualty in the chaos of my mind. I hid secret friends in the cracks of fantasy, their whispers easier to hear than the noise outside. Phone calls…
by Joan Mazza You are the master of your unspoken words, but a slave to the words you have spoken. ~Winston Churchill To hold a small treasure hidden in the palm or pocket,to know no one knows what you know, the delicate,intricate details of lacework, net of devious deceptions, distractions,…