Tag: poetry

“How my father prays” & “Colored Paper Clips” by Sneha Subramanian Kanta

How my father prays See, how moths eat dark devour dusk contours like raised fragments from a cashmere shawl. Call me Ishmael, I tell my father speak to me in a mouth full of Persian dialects mumble but my father is a silent man of great faith in God. He tells me the ship is at a certain distance from land because God wills it so. Upon the knee of a ghazal in pastiche stitched emulsifications of synapse ships the sea is vacant like land there is no grimoire, nor the steady onslaught of rain. My father supervises the symmetry…

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“Woman in Womanhood” by Katherine Gaffney

WOMAN IN WOMANHOOD Koi demands to be said quietly as my yellow raincoat asks to be worn on foggy days. The port is robed and disrobed by the gusts whiter than the white laced against the orange on the fish’s back. Pairs swim in a pond, with water tended to like arthritic bones; they swim and love simply, rung through with exoticism. Let us poeticize womanhood. Pretend a hoot is a howl; the sounds of a fife equal the sexual exhales on a bed of sand. Widen the bay’s mouth, let its voice sing a dirge to passing ships unsure…

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“Space Witch, Thief of Dreams” by Thomas L. Winters

Space Witch, Thief of Dreams A cold begins to kiss my feet. Wades on up, up carceral shell. Rescinds my dreams for formless vogue. I sleekly slide the Witch’s tongue. Basil swamps ascend in whirls. And swathes in swirls, those purplest whorls. The Witch’s Eye a slime, maligns. Cricks, grows peep-groves—did I just die? A rupture in the walls of holy halls. Men, a priest; ten hundred faces watching me, menace-wan. Their grease is run; yeast. I yield and ride the Witch’s lung. Round up all the sims Her mission swims. Assimilate my whims Her witting hymns. Indeed, I am…

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“MAMãO” by David Morgan O’Connor

MAMãO open fruit in midday sun, papaya, for example, virtue ripe to give. Fruit peddler, all smog covered, car horns blazing Villas-Lobos Axe from sweatshop windows air conditioners weep puddles onto cobblestoned memory. The bus will never come. There is no shade. Yet that orange meat splayed green skinned, black seeded, flash of flesh, authentic, faithful promise of juicy kiss seducing some lucky passerby.       David Morgan O’Connor is from a small village on Lake Huron. After many nomadic years, he is based in Albuquerque, where a short story collection progresses. He contributes monthly to: The Review Review…

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“Operating Room” by Kimberly Casey

Operating Room Lay your spine down on the marble slab And count backwards from 1988 Ticking off years for every generation before Your family called you into existence. Place your palms face down and draw up The cool beneath you, into agape pores Hesitation before the final inhale Eyes unlock and roll within. … Doctor deems body a minefield Uncovering metal & mortar Woman withdrawn burden Extract weapons on site Doctor say woman will grow Into a wanting split shell Woman say doctor don’t Know this breaking thing well … Here you are stripped bare, treated and trying It all…

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“m(y)o(ceanic)s(elf)a(nd)i(ts)c(urrents)” by Eric Cline

m(y)o(ceanic)s(elf)a(nd)i(ts)c(urrents) i straddled the edges of island blackened with age and urchins. years later gray carpet bore witness to death without sound. when i was a child, my friend and i picked flowers for our teacher. i once pressed petals to page and tried to paint the look of not-life. i want to die perfectly complete, a hollow bloom in amber. the first boy i ever felt for called me a faggot. everything dips its toes, wades, then departs.     Eric Cline is a queer writer currently living in Dumfries, VA. They are the author of the poetry chapbooks…

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“At the Movies with Narcissus” by Sage

At the Movies with Narcissus These black-white wings are pinned to the table with a sandwich sword. Apricot pits circle a priestess blowing a trumpet to the sea. No one answers. Beneath a river there is an ancient boat. Its motor clicks, then dies. The puddle-boy says This is something everyone feels at least once. His face is soft-gold, tarnished from all the hands that have touched his skin and demanded touch in return. Puddle-boy, boy in the water who loved himself when no one else would, hear the echo of your blessing: no one answers you. The world is…

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“Sartre by the River” by Beate Sigriddaughter

Sartre by the River I see a girl read Sartre by the river on a misty Sunday morning. Nobody, she believes, knows who she is, what she is doing. Her parents think she went to church, she thinks, to the late morning sermon, her hymnal in her baggy red purse instead of Being and Nothingness of which she doesn’t understand a word, even in translation. No matter. The title, lovely, certainly intrigues. She wants to say no to something without hurting anyone. And so her life begins with secrets and the scent of grass, ducks on the water, words on…

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“Sitting with Grandpa in 1983” & “@ 45 Years + 365.75 Days” by Ben Kline

Sitting with Grandpa in 1983 may not be as interesting as recurrent daydreams about Soviet nukes or a supernova obliterating every subatomic speck of us, his seventy-two years counted like tachyons, as if every element won’t reconvene as the formerly impenetrable density of nothing that burst into everything I see from our hillside porch attached to our trailer by broomsticks, tarp straps, lake water blue shingles found roadside, beside the nine-point buck splattered into shiny pink inside-out chunks, as if it had swallowed a bomb and not been rendered an oversized Caravaggian de Kooning by a rapid brush with an…

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“May 18, 1980” and “finding the storm” by Constance Schultz

May 18, 1980 the sand my feet remember hot burning in summer until the mountain blew and soft ash that summer the city nearly shut down and we walked in the ghost town that was ours my father dusted the fruit tree babies with a handkerchief on his face and our roof did not fall in it was not poison like we didn’t know was not the end of the world on a Sunday I didn’t go to church finding the storm finding the storm before it arrives on the top of cascade hill cotton balls in the sky unthreading…

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