Edited by Catherine Ayres
The Side of Me I Fear
She kicks their teeth in
and is never sorry.
Hidden, the queen of snakes,
never takes the high road.
She dances through me
wearing only a bangle
made of molars and finger bones
gloating like Kali, her feet
trample the gored body of memory.
By Kate Garrett
An older version of this poem first appeared on Word Bohemia, September 2014
The Girl Wanders
the shifting border
between waves, clouds and sand
where she searches
for lost things.
Sting of wind, foam-kissed stones
lead her away
not far enough;
her heart looks out beyond
her restless feet.
By Kate Garrett
A slightly different version of this poem was first published on Boston Poetry Magazine, July 2014
Hasten to the Pasture
I lay down in a pasture of stars, kites
Flying in amber, fate listens to my
Valerian sleep. My eyes flit like moths
Detained in form by a drop of a street
Lamp’s lilac light, a thrown vase that splinters
Into all the wooden animals of
The ark, silverfish crawl around my skull.
I can hear my larynx turn to charcoal
‘Neath hollow water reeds that haunt the
Ceiling, my chromatic breath blows across
The florid mandala air of the room.
These blood candied tones of midnight’s choir are
In league with Pan, swaddled in the grotto
Of belly buttons playing a syrinx.
By Grant Tabard
Under the light
Flecks of moisture sit stagnant,
Rain shines on ominous shadows,
A glow of warmth,
towards a distant blink.
Flash of black and nothing.
Reflections of a past project.
Pebble dash views, eclipse the moon.
Signals for boats to pass,
A warning for them to stop.
By Stephen Daniels
They fold the season into four equal parts of blue plastic tarp. The last lovers stroll
arm-in-arm on a darkening promenade
……….I watch them from my sand-covered window
feel them savoring their final moments seaside. A gray veil seals their fate: A
separation blown on the cold winds of a changing season.
My heart: Buried amongst innumerable stones: tumbled smooth by eons of (roiling)
surf from distant shores. Warm in my hand, it(s) safe here: A rarity to be cherished
(my dreams are left behind) as treasured memories
Footprints soon washed away by the Autumn waves of the North Sea.
By Korliss Sewer
I wish you loved me
Pitch dark, icy, indifferent sunrays
spread on my back
and through the window
your hand lay on the floor,
warm, firm, loving.
Don’t hurry cloud,
wait a little,
give me a chance
to step on it.
By Renata Connors
Crystalline water drops
Tumble down his sweaty cheek
Mixed with enflamed tear spots
with sleep deprived for half a week
He staggers dreaming as he slips
startles the room with the crash that he will make
instead he grabs a wine glass,sips
Nonchalantly bites a walnut cake
By Angel Edwards
The Princess and the Hag
Once I was the pale princess
but now I am grown into the hag:
while my waist thickens
and my beard springs,
my hag-heart bristles and burns.
The ape and the spinster chatter and dance
as if to pull the story both ways
but time’s brittle finger crooks my limbs
and ivy binds the root
of my tongue.
By Ottley Wyatt
I NEVER FELT SORRY FOR OMAR SHARIF
Until I found out that despite his handsome mustache
and playboy ways and thousands of women and race horses
and famous movies and and drinking champagne and gambling
until dawn for thousands upon thousands of dollars that he lived alone
in a hotel and awoke every day at noon, bored and depressed
and wandered the streets of Paris longing for the only woman
he ever loved from 1965, smoking 100 cigarettes a day and when
of course he finally did have a heart attack he collapsed on the floor
and didn’t know who he could possibly call and called no one at all
and wanted a new life but instead just gave up cigarettes.
By Ricky Garni
When I look out the window I see a little boy is playing with a soccer ball in the backyard of the apartment complex. Debbie asked me what I imagined heaven to be. “To look out the window and see a little boy playing with a soccer ball, and to close my eyes and when I reopen them to see the little boy is thirty years old, playing with his son in the backyard with a soccer ball.”
“That’s not heaven,” Debbie said, “that’s just discipline.”
By Ricky Garni