Rhythm & Bones

Rhythm & Bones

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...

April 20, 2019


by Lauren Saxon

looks nothing like I hoped she would. she is a one night stand. she is 3pm traffic. I overplay 

her on the radio & grow tired of her voice. she is lukewarm leftovers. uninsured therapy. discontinuous. we spend most days making small talk about the...

April 20, 2019


by Weslyn Rae Newburn

The secret to a beautiful garden is compost – silky, life-sustaining soil.

Leave your pile exposed so worms and roly polies can crawl inside to consume the thoughts you discarded like the eyes from the potatoes you left in the pantry too l...

April 20, 2019

 "emerald swallowtail" 

photo by Ross (Dragon)

little hurts 

by Savannah Slone

littered glass
shards of humanity
mimicking a wishbone tug

pulling the trigger on god
suicide of the sky—the Out There
an assembly of the disassembled hollow
sprouting alignment—fevered  wo...

April 20, 2019

call her name No Mercy 

by alyssa hanna 

i wrote my name at the top

of a desert but when i blinked the wind had turned

the letters to a sad mouth drunk

with decanters and the fumes

of a scorched soul

                                    the lightning bugs burned...

April 20, 2019

Dandelion Seeds

by Kristin Ryan

Everything was sharp.
Colors and sounds,
jutting of bone through
the tug of chaos in her chest.

Everything was falling.
Hair from her scalp,
bruised knee caps in front of toilets,
apple and blood into the bowl.

Everything was heavy.

April 20, 2019

to make the water sick

by alyssa hanna

the rainbow puddle of an oil stain you are

some haunting some specter a desert

desolate i taste the acid the gas this

water has no life but viruses and

bacterial infection turning oxygen to

red to pus to a body gone septic

and i don’t rem...

April 20, 2019


by Catherine Garbinsky 

Out in the orchard,

wasps are burrowing into ripe berries,

relishing soft

sweetness on the vine.

Today I affirm: to relish your sweetness,

but also the bitter and the bruised parts of you.

Gather the salt from my tears,

grind it down wit...

April 20, 2019


by Kristin Garth

for Harold (from the abused muses/crayons everywhere)

Hold me so gentle while we play pretend.

Outline a sky with my viscera shaped

into a friend. Unpeel me. Careful. Skin

my skeleton — paper, wound around grape

wax gelatin.  Discard my defenses. Pick


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