POETRY: CATHERINE WOLF – WHERE ARE THE SIDEWALKS

Where Are the Sidewalks?

 

Blades of grass slashed my feet.

“No Trespassing” signs smacked my face, screamed,

“Go back to your city, we have no sidewalks here.” Sidewalks,

sidewalks, where are the sidewalks?

Limping, dripping bloody footprints on the macadamia road,

I edged toward the school bus stop,

where hyenas brayed, “We are the cool of the suburbs,

worship at our Gucci feet!”  The school bus choked me

with a mix of diesel and fluffy yellow cake uranium,

crazy-glued me to the seat with chewed orange bubble gum.

 

The rambling, random brick walls of the school blocked my path,

spat at me, mockingly proclaimed,

“We have no use for you, little girl,

go back to your dingy drabby scumdummy school.”

The bell shrieked, “You’re late for your viral

algebra class! Your punishment:  prove theological theorems

for all to see. Pray to the icon of iconoclasm!”

Blackboards surrounded me,

erasers clapped together, suffocating with clouds of cyanide chalk.

The gymnasium belligerently belittled my body,

bleachers ripped off my clothes,

chanting, “Boo, boo, no one will ever make love to you!”

 

I hid in the showers and cried for the sidewalks.

But the sidewalks shed crock pot tears and

not for me.

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POETRY: Husain Abdulhay – Devoted Dad

Devoted dad

Nothing more I reveled in than seeing my little kid’s blithe face.
One day we were sitting round my daughter’s birthday cake,
Say, ‘‘what you want for your birthday gift?’’
I will do whatever you wish.
There were some red fish in the aqua tank.
She said, ‘‘Please gulp them down in a blink of an eye.’’
Since I didn’t want to make her sad,
I swallowed them all at once.
Now I’ve got stomachache for two days long.
But I made her at last burst into lusty laugh.

~

Husain Abdulhay, born on 26 August 1979, is from Iran.

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POETRY: JAMES JACKSON – SPACE JUNK

SPACE JUNK

After the breakup, our phone conversations
become space debris, steel pieces hardly
discernible hurtling haphazardly at five miles

per second. Where do the scraps go?
The gold taste of summer will impact the brain
and puncture, enflame. We wish to assist

the start-ups who seek to construct
machines to eliminate wayward spares
of satellites trapped in the gravity of a body,

propel its dust into the atmosphere to burn.
We drift wary of small artifacts
from failed missions to emerge

in the distance of night to strike
and make split into fragments
we will never assemble again.

Find James Jackson Online.

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