Poetry

She said, Let there be stories; and there were stories.
As she spoke, her breath crystallized into the shapes of birds and beasts.
But the animals were forgetful,
so she had to teach them to remember the words that …

Why Can’t Middle Age Be Like Childhood But with Sex, Liquor and Hipper Boots

47, Poetry by Joanna Fuhrman

Some days all I need to be happy is a subway seat
and a Diet Dr Pepper. Other days I’m waiting

for the fog to spell out my name (it never happens).
I want to believe in the bulbous green …

vignettes of a lost wife

47, Poetry by Athena Nassar

I.
It is April. Climbing roses crown headfirst through the soil,
ripening under my criss crossed legs without my permission.

The aroma of apricots hangs in the air like wet linens, tempting
the noses of churchgoing boys, but I refuse

…

Don’t bury the dead

47, Poetry by Bernardo Wade

I’ve been                         broken
                 boy turned                  to drink
left to rust                   family-damp
       with prayer                      I wish
             he would just                                stop
digging in
            graveyards.

Poetry

Homo Accidens

Our Reeducation of Britney Spears

Ida, 2021 & Copperhead Musk

pêche d’enfer

Dear Francis,

Personal Credo

The Forgetful Beasts

Why Can’t Middle Age Be Like Childhood But with Sex, Liquor and Hipper Boots

vignettes of a lost wife

I.
It is April. Climbing roses crown headfirst through the soil,
ripening under my criss crossed legs without my permission.

The aroma of apricots hangs in the air like wet linens, tempting
the noses of churchgoing boys, but I refuse

Don’t bury the dead

I’ve been                         broken
                 boy turned                  to drink
left to rust                   family-damp
       with prayer                      I wish
             he would just                                stop
digging in
            graveyards.

We don’t bury the dead.

We remember the sky

likes to fall

down the throat.

We call it

Poetry

I.It is April. Climbing roses crown headfirst through the soil,ripening under my criss crossed legs without my permission.

The aroma of apricots hangs in the air like wet linens, temptingthe noses of churchgoing boys, but I refuse

I’ve been broken boy turned to drinkleft to rust family-damp with prayer I wish he would just stopdigging in graveyards.

We don’t bury the dead.

We remember the sky

likes to fall

down the throat.

We call it

Footer

I.
It is April. Climbing roses crown headfirst through the soil,
ripening under my criss crossed legs without my permission.

The aroma of apricots hangs in the air like wet linens, tempting
the noses of churchgoing boys, but I refuse

I’ve been broken
boy turned to drink
left to rust family-damp
with prayer I wish
he would just stop
digging in
graveyards.