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...
Kari A. Flickinger
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.
Photo by Jeffrey Wegrzyn on Unsplash
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,
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
Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon
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...
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...
Carly Madison Taylor
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...
Photo by Sara Cervera on Unsplash
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
a ruptured throat,
of a riverbed.
She smells like partially
black coffee, bile.
She slips into the chapel,
last seat, last row.
Years later, she wakes up...
you won’t know
by Mela Blust
when the ghost slips out of you
whether with a bang or just a breath
a step forward or a leap
when the smoke...