Rhythm & Bones

Rhythm & Bones

November 24, 2019

Photo by Larm Rmah on Unsplash 

She comes / she goes

I love her,

ah, she comes as she goes

in soothing, playful waves

at first, a conch shell remains

with a siren song in her place.

I love her, ah,

yes, I love her.

Ah, she comes then she goes

with stronger tides y...

November 24, 2019

 Photo: "Faraway Near" by Kimberly Cunningham 



Every week I go to the grocery store and lust

for perennial bloomers. Eye pots of roses. I would give

them my home—glorious soil, and with a new-found love

and generosity, we could grow together.

The metaphor...

November 24, 2019

Photo by Jeffrey Wegrzyn on Unsplash

Thornfield Hall

My heart is Thornfield Hall

and I am your ashen governess,

ventricles pounding stronger

behind a ribcage of poverty

and literature written in cursive.

Your inherited hallways

blaze with an inferno

of secrets and mystery,


November 24, 2019

Photo by Camila Cordeiro on Unsplash


taste the wretched honey of my sins

wrench the last breath from

the poverty of my lungs

how many times have i been on my knees

praying for the next delicious theft?

see these hands

built this shrine so that you could worship

a come...

November 24, 2019

Photo: "Oxygen" by Lynne Schmidt


Anna breathes safely

in the low-lit break-out room.

Candles, scented rose and musk,

embrace her like a lover.

Feel free – to take time out

For the first time ever since

that time, you know, yes,

that one, only one of many

but the first th...

November 24, 2019

 Photo: "On A Back Road" by Lynne Schmidt

Tracing a Love Song

(Golden Shovel based on a line from "Empty Highway Home" James Fountain)

Charcoal clouds swell in an orange dawn sky. I

drive this regular, everyday route where I am

conscious of each pothole, each bump, each afr...

November 24, 2019

Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

The Best Kind of Crabs

            for the sex store, and


It’s the year I become she

who tells cus...

November 24, 2019

Photo by Sara Cervera on Unsplash  

ripe peaches  

last night i spent an eternity with my head in the lap

of a fine french boy and he was feeding me ripe

peaches from a terracotta dish the juice dribbling

down my chin and on to my bare chest when


April 20, 2019

Monday Night Prayer

by Kristin Ryan

Through the streets
her head swirls
black thoughts:
a ruptured throat,
the bottom
of a riverbed.

She smells like partially
digested lettuce,
black coffee, bile.

She slips into the chapel,
last seat, last row.

Years later, she wakes up...

April 20, 2019

you won’t know

by Mela Blust

you won’t know

when the ghost slips out of you

whether with a bang         or just a breath

a step forward               or a leap

when the smoke...

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