She reminds me of my Italian cousins. Square brick houses on tight suburban streets with Madonnas-in-bathtubs on front lawns.
Category: Poetry
“For Coloreds Only” by Daniel Summerhill
Still, somehow, each time I boarded,/ the jetway seemed a partition in which/ I could change in and out of my skin at will
“Become so fluid” by E. Kristin Anderson
The feminine, breezing around, messy—/ we may be our edge, closer to home,
“Sweet Wolf #1” by Darren C. Demaree
The chemicals of each breed/ brings a new threat.
From ‘The Good House and the Bad House’ by Doe Parker
i fill the house with candles, the flames sit next to each other.
“Apotheosis” by Ainsley Pinkowitz
The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff. ― Carl Sagan, Cosmos We were born of carbon. The human body is made of it, with carbon surpassed only by… Continue reading “Apotheosis” by Ainsley Pinkowitz
“Night Songs” by Wale Owoade
I listen to a door open its robe to a street full enough to be a sky too cruel to be a sky we were never lonely just a fire in need of heat I want to be a wind and wake an ocean to be a street then chase out all the water the… Continue reading “Night Songs” by Wale Owoade
“Euphoria” by Logan Seidl
When our marriage was bankrupt, jobless, holding a sign for donations, when our marriage was a paper plane ablaze, an oil spot, a two dollar bill, when our marriage was a two and six off suit, a house of cards above the fault line, sheets folded in the spare bedroom, when our marriage was an… Continue reading “Euphoria” by Logan Seidl
“Summer Poem” by Bob Sykora
That summer, eyes lolling over, eight lanes packed and you licked yogurt off my forehead. Ignoring calls from home. In Philly you tried to quit smoking and I spilled my drink all over and we kissed or we fought or whatever. Stale bar popcorn for dinner and the phone just wouldn’t stop weeping. I’d sleep… Continue reading “Summer Poem” by Bob Sykora
“Wet” by Jen Knox
Rough, dry hands pull at our necks, our expanding skirts. They tug at the flowerbeds below, sweet and thick, unreleased. Nourishment, a cloud-blanketed sun. We stay in bed like lettuce. We soak heat like a sponge, till we’re too heavy to float. Our loneliness is irony, swollen with greedy buds. Tasting, crunching the earth like… Continue reading “Wet” by Jen Knox
