Posts tagged ‘2016’

Saturday, 12 March 2022

Rat’s Nest by Monica Rico

My mother said, my hair was like a rat’s nest, a rat’s nest
plucked by a black capped chickadee for another nest or the start of
the tiniest scarf because on occasion my hair is too much like leaves it sticks
to every one, every sweater I hug, sometimes it even smells pretty like
leaves deciding it rather be a whole tree that wants to grow
like fog by the river that spreads out and over like dandelion fuzz
captured on every surface like a sparkle, a reflection, a promise to remain
myself with this hair which is a staircase, antennae pointed out into the world
stretched like gladioli, something so wondrous your fingers get caught in this hair
that causes the very teeth of combs to break and bow.


Date: 2016

By: Monica Rico (19??- )

Monday, 21 February 2022

I Loved Him by Lang Leav

I loved how his eyes danced merrily,
and the gentle way he spoke;
the way he filled my aimless days,
with bitterness and hope.

I loved him as I fell to sleep,
and each morning as I woke;
I loved him with all my wayward heart—
until the day it broke.


Date: 2016

By: Lang Leav (1980- )

Sunday, 20 February 2022

Proximity by Michael Faudet

We joined the dots
from A to B,
the line we drew
from you to me,
traced empty shores
across the sea,
over mountain top,
past forest tree,
along the roads
and walking tracks,
all bridges burned,
no looking back,
for the love
we have,
no gate can stop,
no barking dog
or bolted lock,
for what is real
is meant to be,
when two hearts
in proximity.


Date: 2016

By: Michael Faudet (19??- )

Friday, 11 February 2022

The Age of Forgetting by Amber Flora Thomas

This happens with the rapture too.
Leaving your Birkenstocks and
brown sweater waiting at the chair
with a cold cup of coffee. A gift
of peacock feathers nodding in
a mason jar by the window. Served up

by science as brain atrophy. Shrapnel
misting cranial stars. Arias in oblivion
sending you into a remote outback
of lippy frostings and creams smeared
on spoons. Tripping until you tripped
into the white rabbit’s downy belly fluff.

The rooms sucked away like cellophane
caramels and fizzy root beer pop. At first,
great-great grandmother Wickliffe and
our Cherokee in Tennessee appeared
as snapshots. Your newspaper route
in 1955. The stories you had to deny

undressed by a cloud front. Your
disappearance like motion trapped
in a marble; the finite air bubbles
cruising that cosmos probably
breath. Little god raising your drunk,
smoked-out white flag at my entire life.


Date: 2016

By: Amber Flora Thomas (19??- )

Monday, 31 January 2022

Her Own by Jane Clarke

My mother said she knew, just knew
I was going to be a girl,

two boys before and two boys after –
fodder for a hungry farm,

but I was hers.
She taught me her tricks of the trade;

it’ll look like dinner is nearly ready
if the table is set when he comes in,

bread and butter will fill them up,
add three drops of vinegar to water

so your mirrors and windows will gleam,
cool your fingers before rubbing lard into flour

for pastry, a handful of ground almonds
will keep your fruit cake moist,

darn a few socks every night
and never leave the ironing for more than a week,

don’t cut off rhubarb stalks with a knife,
just twist them clean from the crown,

and always hold onto the children’s allowance;
a woman must have something of her own.


Date: 2016

By: Jane Clarke (1961- )

Thursday, 6 January 2022

Blue by Diane Slaney

Each Christmas, he’d change the baling twine
that held his trousers up to festive orange, but
this year he left it blue. He couldn’t find a clean
or hole-free jumper in the blanket box, so shut
the lid forever on its Nina Ricci dust and wore
instead the logo sweatshirt that she hated,
scrawled in blue. Squinting, he plucked a nose
hair on each day of advent, chalked off and feted
their demise with chocolate Santas bought for
kids carolling to the farm. They bleated their best
Bethlehem, expecting gold, getting blue. Vape
rings hanging in cold air said he’d failed the test,
forgotten those kind crinkles at the corner of her
eyes flirting like lost periwinkles on woodland
floors. His shut, he saw her eyelids flicker pain,
the cannula breaking blue on the back of her hand.


Date: 2016

By: Diane Slaney (19??-)

Saturday, 20 November 2021

Blood by Cameron Conaway

He passed out, and the nurses
declined his bed so what blood he had
could rush to his head.

They’ve been pumping him full of fluids—
a move moving him closer to the end.

We whisper to each other because
the watching is heavy, and we want
to stir the silence gently.

Weeks later, we’ll wrap his near death
in the metaphors of our days: He circled
the drain twice, we ’ll say.

Our lightness will take us back to how
the magazines in the waiting room made
glamor the only kind of beauty, how
we felt in control turning their pages, how
the sweat beads on his forehead reminded
us that glistening is nothing without light,
how it’s too often this way: we fill men
with fluid when they most needed our blood.


Date: 2016

By: Cameron Conaway (1985- )

Monday, 10 May 2021

La Sorcière by Elline Lipkin

In literal French: a sorceress, a witch, also slang for any older, unmarried woman.  In French custom, a sorcière is also the name for a simple band worn as a safeguard above a wedding ring.

It curls,
a thin slice of dun moon, its pressed lips
un-made-up against the stars’ hoyden brass.

And lines,
a tin wrinkle marring the stone’s set face,
a pucker of grey band capping the light’s fall.

It twists,
the concierge against her 6 a.m. broom, restless to sweep
two sets of 4 a.m. prints, fugitives fled past her door.

And taunts,
the loose gleam off a crinoline, a fille de joie’s indolent wink,
bordered by the nun’s stern wimple, the crone’s weird glance.

It sets,
flash status against the spinster’s slow fade, last aunt,
the mystery within the sealed attic’s rat-a-tat-tat.

Then pairs,
two cards pulled side by side from the arcana,
the diamond’s naive reach, the queen’s argentine pall.


Date: 2016

By: Elline Lipkin (19??- )

Sunday, 28 March 2021

Tuesday is a Crab by Catori Sarmiento

Tuesday is a crab
sitting on my hand
that pinches at each hour.


Date: 2016

By: Catori Sarmiento (19??- )

Friday, 26 March 2021

Watching My Son Bloom into Summer by Armin Tolentino

His mossy crotch stains the shower floor green
and the drain is clogged with wet clumps of grass.

My boy unfolds into fronds of fern as he slowly sheds
any semblance of me. I’m losing his face through bark

and branches. His hair fluffs with pollen
and his armpits secrete a nectar so cloying

his room is filled with bees. He no longer speaks,
just stares out the window, lusting for sun.

I lie and tell him I understand, that it’s natural,
but my voice is lost through miles of forest.

I don’t know what to get him for his birthday.
I place a basket beneath his outstretched arms

and together we celebrate his falling leaves.


Date: 2016

By: Armin Tolentino (19??- )