Posts tagged ‘2016’

Wednesday, 5 October 2022

The Grief Woman by Wendy Noonan

We drove to the hospital and got his ashes from a woman
who talked to us in a conference room,
the box of him by her elbow.
We were forced to listen
to her spiel—moth-eaten words
about loss she had no business saying.
The woman sat too close. She smelled like talcum in an old cupboard.
When it was over, the brown box got pushed
to our side of the table.
For weeks, I wondered obsessively what the grief woman wanted back
when she offered us the gift of his ashes.
If I ever find her asleep, I will cut off her head and stuff it full of garlic.


Date: 2016

By: Wendy Noonan (19??- )

Monday, 5 September 2022

Chatter by Kate Partridge

After winter, quiet except for logs settling
in the fire, the men begin to pick their way

up the ice roads, now mud, now earth again.
Occasionally with money, but usually

with need—the next closest fish
camp at least two days’ walk, although

that family claims the edge of the world.
Siduri has thought of a sign—something to carve

your name in—but settles for allowing travelers
to wedge coins between the planks of the ceiling,

a memento before their crossings.
Glinting, one man asks: How much

do you think is up there? Not enough
to get me to hell and back, she replies.


Date: 2016

By: Kate Partridge (19??- )

Thursday, 16 June 2022

What Was Told by David Ishaya Osu

was triangle &
the sayings of an
apple full

of iodine. what
was told before the
kiss. has a toad

swollen at
a word
of divorce? elegy

no cry again
for the coming
coming nights, no

no, no, quickly
quickly as a rain
rinsing a

dress made
from ash
—the second coming

of judas—how are
you, mr. xylophone? have
you got some

new mallets
for this old



Date: 2016

By: David Ishaya Osu (1991- )

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- )