IN BETWEEN
In between grandmother’s scandalous stories
and the little prints of thumb
in between Carol’s secrets whispered and the
Genesis of the long gone rum
in between howl and forgotten ancient words
and fickle minded dreaming sons
in between sand and time and life and wine
She breathed her last as a corpse
trapped-
in between.
Read more "POETRY: Arushi Singh – In Between"Remembering
I walk in the shadow of skeletal trees,
their fearsome, naked branches reaching out
in desperation, pleading for redemption
like ghostly soldiers back from war in search
of peace, an end to dreams
of screams and shattered flesh.
Scattered underneath, concealed among
withered, blood-red remnants of last year’s
flowers, lurk spiked seed pods,
tiny, inobtrusive land mines
set to detonate at slightest touch
exploding everywhere new seeds
prepared to sprout, to conquer, and
to dominate all lesser growth
exhibiting their red magnificence.
Until, again, the glory ends
in stark, bare desolation.
Read more "POETRY: RITA ROUSSEAU – REMEMBERING"Lemon Water in Lake Michigan
Midwestern boys use tongue. And I’ve sprouted
from cracks in concrete. Midwestern boys use their fingers.
And I’ve used my hands
too. Trust me. I’ve used numb hands
to mold Midwestern boys. I know how they form words
in their heads before slapping asses
in beds that I’ve made.
I don’t wash my sheets anymore.
I used to know Midwestern boys, but they don’t bleed
with the vigor that I do. They don’t smack
ball of foot to earth the way that I taught them to.
And Midwestern boys use pretty words
like “only child” to water me,
make me grow, spread me
out, lick me clean. Midwestern boys borrow
my knitting needles and use them
wrong. Midwestern boys show me their photographs,
let me put finger to gloss. Let me put finger to mouth,
Midwestern boys. I’m stuck
between two slabs of planet
and all of the Midwestern boys are drinking
lemon water.
Read more "POETRY: LAURA MANARDO – Lemon Water in Lake Michigan"Irrawaddy Dolphins and Casual Sex
Like the Irrawaddy dolphin,
I have sex for pleasure
and it ruins me
because I need you to hold me
afterward in the Mekong River.
I need you
to swim alongside me
and let me take a breath
from your blowhole.
It is estimated that 91 of us still exist,
still swim together.
Well, every time I leave
your bed I feel the dead
dolphins lining the river’s bottom. They lived
their lives trying to breathe
in each others exhaled breaths,
trying to buoy themselves to see
the sun rise and fall
on each others backs.
Read more "POETRY: Laura Manardo – Irrawaddy Dolphins and Casual Sex"Exhumed Hello dead flower, for all time now you will be embedded inside of me. I will love you, dead as you are, withered like a left-out tomato. I will cherish you, your deadness, your smell and deep dead colour. There – the funny shadow on the upper wall – you killed my […]
Read more "POETRY: ALLISON GRAYHURST – Exhumed"
Cacti Fur 