Category: Poetry
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That Woman by Rhonda Rosenheck
(A Sestina) The bed, visible through the legs of adults and a child circledround, looks crisp and taut, as if there is no womanbeneath its sheets sending to a stanchion monitor signalsthat measure life. Breathing? Check. BP? Eh. Heartbeat? Slow.Sitting across the room, on vigil at another bed, I can seeonly the child’s silky brown…
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The Ghost of Wilhelmine by Hannah J. Roy
Her gravestone reads: A Devoted Daughter, Cared Enough to Erect This Shrine of the Most Sweet Mother of GodAll ghost stories start with Once upon a death and end with white space. They say she was the wind in the chandeliers, a bone cold breath in the hallway. Donning a white taffeta dress, she strutted…
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The Conifers by Rhonda Rosenheck
(a villanelle) The conifers spoke to the deciduous treesDeep in the cool, ancient wood.“Wish,” they whispered, “they were a gentler species.” Honey locusts and maples nodded their leaves,Mulberries and oaks, as well, understood.The conifers spoke to the deciduous trees:“Shall nature stand by as they do as they please?”“We know,” wept the Willow sisters, both so…
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Body/Fear by Lorhenz Lacsa
The cold cradled the skin of my ribs as I sat there. The precision in the airis surgical—hair strands felt,every inch wet from sweat.How was I humanwhen all I felt was industrial?How is it a heart when it’s a whirring gear that drags,and drags, and drags?My father’s rusts never leftmy blood; I wish I couldregulate…
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Mary by Rhonda Rosenheck
(a pantoum) Mary dug through her sundae, unearthing sweet bits,blind to oblique police-woman glances. Indifferent— archeological zeal? Blood, where her right hand rakedher captor’s corpse.Blind to oblique police-woman glances. Indifferent to fluid crusting red to brown to black, fromher captor’s corpse,drying, as she slaked her thirst and ate her first meal.Fluid, crusting red to brown…
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The Hole in My Head by Nicky O’Connell
There’s a grave in my pocket, a hole in my headPocket buries dreams, pride, and trust—While the hole swallows what cannot be named. I reach to remember—but then I forgetTrying triggers the shifting of colours,Spinning wheel—blurring, obscuring— What I saw, breathed, bled into the soil.It strikes between the lungs— Crimson rings my eyes—then burgundydrags mars…
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The Principle of Threes by Nicky O’Connell
There is a man who speaks for the dead,Who listed the threes of dread:Air, water, food—Miss one and you’re screwed,He’ll weigh you and measure your head. Nicky is a South African artist and writer whose work weaves together dark energy, human emotion, and the hidden threads that bind consciousness. A member of Mensa, she explores…
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Creature of the Night by Audrey Schmidt
Blood red, myFingers dripWith wantingWhat runs away—So far.I chase you like aLike an owl. Quiet as the nightI swoop downHoping to catch youOnce more,Under the moonlight.We dance our—Last dance.Because tonightYou are caught—In me.And no matter how hard you fight,Claw or beg—You are just a mouse.And you cannot scream.Blood red, myFingers dripNot with my blood,But yours,…
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Intertitles by Megan Denese Mealor
There was a skeletal continuity to the greasepaint proceedingsin the battered copy of a copy Jobyna Theater on dropout Vaudeville Avenue, the feral homeland of late-blooming flower childrenand the stillbirth of muted trains.Shadows toned with silver salts capered asplucky shopgirl Clara Bow darkened her lipswith the memory of her mother’s madness,a thousand butcher knives forever…
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Observance by Megan Denese Mealor
The black velvet petunias eat away at your antipathy– sunless conduit flowers for unlit obituary candles, Drunk Tank Pink garnish of a burial shroud,