Tag: poets

“Befrust” by Gabrielle Lawrence

        Gabrielle Lawrence is a writer and editor. Her writing can be found in The Squawk Back, Rising Phoenix Review, Gravel Magazine, A Gathering Together Journal, Sundog Lit, and others. Even when she isn’t doing the most, she is still in the spirit of much. Follow her

“Damocles” by Jennifer Wholey

A haibun   Brush firmly tangled into a deep nest of my hair, I learned about the sword of Damocles from my father one perfect Hawaiian evening. The sun was a picturesque blur of color bleeding on the horizon; I knew the brush must stay in my hair until it

“Dead Trees” by Chloe Smith

You laugh, loud and clear, At my look of pure horror When you tell me what paper is. Careful, you’ll stick like that, love – You said, as I blink at the thin page, As barely there as my pale skin. Not at all rough, like its body outside, That

“Bloodbath” by Aremu Adams Adebisi

    A meal is bought with blood, and then, chaos of hard clay. You linger in nudity, the night   is serrated in embarrassment; rusty mist, absence of flowers, a floodtide of dust & shadows.   Your eyes fall into the crevice of sound & quietude, an escape for

“morning reflections” by G F Harper

  morning reflections say it with me in cadence: what place is this called the land of the free what place is this pulled from as you would from the depths of your lungs to spew trumpet sketches to find support in song in resolute inflection say it with me

“What It Means” and “Nocturnalist” by Betsy Housten

  WHAT IT MEANS It means I walk the world in a shape I’ve only known since age twenty-four. Or, by a different calculation, since age eight, kneeling in my parents’ closet, of all places, hunting for Christmas presents, struck by sudden terror – what if I was gay. It

“End of the World Memory” by Jen Rouse

  We sit at coffee discussing what it means to meet at abject vulnerability. Everything catches in my throat, like hearts. I avoid your hands. The link that binds my conscious mind to the mind I might meet on the other side of the table. If I have brought you

“The Invert,” “Flawed Song,” and “Scrapbook” by Lydia Friedman

  The Invert Again she’s on the prowl. See the whisper of a whisker above her lip, the monocle’s claw tigering her eye, the silk silence waistcoating her hips – each button a fang on which a lover may catch. Which lipsticked voice will catch mid-croon as she prowls in

“Programme Terminated” by Gervanna Stephens

    And when / the sun sinks / into the ocean at nights / turning it splendid / blue / and purple / and orange / and rainbow / and gay / does it wake / the Merfolk? is Ra’s definition / of a second job or volunteer work

“Use” by Chad Musick

I already know the use of the user, of mealy-mouthed blandishments, of white lies spoken by nimble tongues that reek of bleach. In the nighttime hovels, the net cafes with webcams duck taped to goose-necked lamps in private booths, we gather, users and used. The luckiest don’t sell their hope.

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