Category: Poetry

2 Poems by Susie Fought

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Liquid Gold

 

If I had to describe her skin it would be deep gold liquid
spilling fire
spilling danger like a super nova
an explosion of arrows aimed to maim
but when she slept next to me I could almost cry with the weight of her anchoring my life into a snug corner
as long as she slept in my bed she was mine
my own wild horse
tethered
if only in sleep if only in my imagination
because all these years later it is so obvious
I would never be hers
not like I wanted
the truth is she slept in my bed simply because it was there
halfway through her day and her night
she stumbled in and flopped here beside me
not mine
not belonging to anyone
liquid gold
warming my bed for a while

 

 

♦◊♦

 

“When You Left”

 

When you left you took the floor with you

The cross beams. The concrete. And even the dirt underneath
I was floating on fear
I nearly drowned in anxiety

My father brought houseplants
When the dark got too thick to breathe

When you left you took my frame of reference
My mirror
My who I am
My why I am here

I painted myself onto you and then you left

—

Susie Fought’s words have been published in various small collections put together by friends including three volumes of BREW, available on Lulu Press. Born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, she now lives with too many dogs in Berkeley, California.

website: http://www.susiefought.com

2 Poems by Frank Karioris

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Sometimes, life is really good

 

Sometimes, life is really good.
A warm and sunny late spring early evening.

The roof is the perfect place to have a beer. Overlooking
the neighborhood, all its peoples,
                                                     buildings, places.

The massive tree at the edge of the parking lot looks fuller
from up here, two red birds flirt
                                                     among its branches.

The church bell’s ring, across the railroad, rings a little clearer
from this height. Street noise a faint but intermittent hum.

The fire truck’s siren echoes on all sides; two of them.
converging towards an unknown point;

yet the echo still trembles through the air, song birds
sing for each other, awaiting their meeting.

 

 

♦◊♦

 

Awning

 

Tiny tears in the awning look like stars
raining down.

Shedding cloth and cloak for heaven’s
lights.

Even the rain falls through it like angelic
drops of joy

that is the way that the tears in the awning
remind me

of the tears in my self that need to be mended,
rain washes it all away.

 

—

Frank G. Karioris (he/they/him/them) is a writer and educator based in Pittsburgh whose writing addresses issues of friendship, masculinity, sexuality, and gender. Their work has appeared in wide ranging publications, including the Hong Kong Review of Books, Burning House Press, Truth-Out, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Maudlin House, and the Berlin Review of Books.

“$200 Super Sandwich” by Christine Alexander

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“I’m a newlywed and an insurance secretary and I live

in San Fernando Valley.”

If I were a different girl, with a different face, in a different time

that might’ve been me

Nestled happily into obscurity, my fifteen minutes in matching sweatshirts

on Supermarket Sweep.

I am yanking hairs from my face in the Star Market parking lot

I am meeting a man who’ll give me some money

I am untethered by motherhood,

plumes of venomous smoke swirling around the front seat

But you want a woman you can take care of things.

I can pose prettily, I can arch my back willingly

I say to you “fill me,” and I mean it.

She is inside filling up the cart

She is making you a $200 Super Sandwich

But I know you’ll still be hungry.

 

—

Christine Alexander is a writer from Gloucester, MA. Her work has appeared in Barren Magazine, The Penmen Review, and High Shelf Press. 
twitter: @d0llypop 

‘where the heart ends up is a kind of funny place after all’ by Kyla Houbolt

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the heart
is a great pilgrimage toward God
a muscle the size of a caravan
an endless story told to an evil tyrant
in hope of something like escape
or at least a meal and a dry bed

on pilgrimage the heart
hears many stories, believes them all
and then believes only some
and finally believes none
because the path goes on
and on and on

and the heart is weary
of all this brouhaha about itself and about
the God it has ceased to seek
yet it can’t seem to just stop and simply
melt into the side of the road

and the awareness comes to it
gradually v. gradually that that
can’t-stopness may itself be
the sought God the electrical
pulsing of something that is not time
but an alive ongoingness

and what does the heart do then?

The heart laughs
and says

God
only
knows

 

—
Kyla Houbolt lives and writes in Gastonia, NC. She’s got various words published online, some in Black Bough Poetry, Barren Magazine, Juke Joint Magazine, and other places. When she’s not writing she can often be found spacing out somewhere, under a tree if she can find one. You can follow Kyla on Twitter @luaz_poet.

“Reunion/Rebellion/Refusal” by Kai Edward Warmoth

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Mother, throw out your black pearls
and smudged the rain will make them.
Their shine become like our shine
under the dirt and hooves of anabasis
where we are the sodden and soiled;
balanced scales.
New wardrobes that convert office lighting
to pure vitamin MDMA
and new costumes
so that we may ritually beg for treats,
guised as the Imago Dei.
These are what Mother will bring
from the conference
in another state.
It’s all the same State.
Gathering now around that oak stand in
the kitchen. What ever was it for?
Here grandfather would act
as if memory reserves seats.
“We shall weigh sod and we shall weigh soil.”
Iron wrought scales know fuck all of anything
but the presupposition of balance.
Order? That comes
through the bark of a dog on
the television.
A hunter-gatherer picks at
Marlboroberries and he gives little heed
to black pearls,
partly obscured in the ashy loam,
smudges left from the oil of a Thumb.
Leave it to the police;
they have a database for this
type of shit.

 

—

Kai Edward Warmoth lives in central Indiana where he patiently awaits being cancelled or Waco’d, whatever comes first.

“where the good sod dies” by Lance Milham

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my father spoke from a grin
behind a muffincrumb beard
about his backswing and traffic lights
and whatever-whoever-said-to-who-cares
while I peeled grains of sleep from my eyes,
but then I noticed a freckle
a thumbwidth above his ear
that his hair used to hide:
a tight brown circle
like the eighteenth green,
of an abandoned course,
the sod withering silently, defeated,
like the rest of the golfer must be

 

—
Lance Milham is an MFA candidate at the University of Central Florida. His fiction and poetry has appeared in Soft Cartel, Pinkley Press, Aurore, and the late Anti-Heroin Chic.

 

 

3 Poems by Jenna Vélez

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pan rabbit and wine

here the doors screen you before you can come in
sometimes children skin their knees
on the blacktop fresh like raven sap
there was always grass that never let you whistle
but danced if you liked

if you listen hard enough
you hear the summer congregation of fireflies
like ember fairies in the blueberry sky

drive faster and no deer can touch you
out here where the woods are more familiar
than the city of unfounded freedom
ringing in your popped ears like corn blues

creeks flowing with the brook trout traffic
backed up like route bluer than her valley forge eyes

here is where i fell in love with the trees
that poisoned you before they let you climb them
and the bliss that smelled like pine forest winters
lake eerie with the sound of war-torn ghosts
and a bethlehem jesus never knew

 

 

 

♦◊♦

 

 

 

ode to a minnesota summer

there’s an ease about a maiden summer
not yet ripe or swamp-skinned
the southern humidity not yet
rising to meet pennsylvanian woods
where the heat glues the trees together
glues the people together

 

but there is a soft and gentle breeze that carries
buddy holly on a radio and sweet sun tea
it whistles with your hair like blades of grass
and whispers in my mother’s childhood songs

 

it doesn’t know the bees are awake from their sleep
and the dragonflies meet us for dreamy peach cobbler sunsets
while mosquitoes hum through the thick muggy air of twilight
this is mozart’s unfinished cricket and cicada symphony
warm, static cling skin and vibrating ceaselessly
but for now we enjoy the breeze
that carried dandelion wishes and kitchen clanging
on its winged back
beckoning the lake to cool us off

 

 

 

 

♦◊♦

 

 

 

will-o’-the-wisp

i see a woman with hips like the wind
and half moon eyes
she is a sway branch, hair like willow
she calls and comforts and cries
she says my name like a curse
like a love song
like a blessing
like a eulogy

i walk to her
barefoot and ghostly
nightgown and night sounds
i sit down before her feet unseen
hovering over the dewy earth
i weep and throw up and beg
for protection, for peace

she carries me back to bed
nothing but a song to move me
and the room gets bluer and bluer
and the air is gone, not a breath to be gasped
by the morning i awake
and sing with her
a mourning song

 

 

—

Jenna Velez is an emerging Latinx poet from suburban Philly. She lives with an absurdly large tea collection and her anxious 3am thoughts. She currently runs “The Northern Bruja’s Grimoire” column with Pussy Magic and “By Death, She Lives” blog with Rhythm & Bones Press. She tweets @northernbruja and can be found at jennavelez.weebly.com.

Four Poems by Lynne Schmidt

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Asking Questions

 

When my youngest niece sees me in a swimsuit,
she peels various cloth to the side and reads the words I’ve painted on my skin.

Three years ago, when she was falling asleep,
she’d rubbed my arm.
Her small body stiffened with the question when she felt the raised flesh
but she didn’t ask.

Now they ask.

Now they tell me they love me.
My oldest niece still reaches for my hand when we walk on beach sand.
‘What happened to your arm?’ they say.
My mouth falls open.

I try to retch the words out,
try to explain something I’m not sure they’ll understand,
until I settle for silence,
because the language I would use
is a gunshot through their bodies.

How do you tell someone who loves you so much,
who runs across parking lots to jump into your arms
that you hate the person they love?

 

 

 

Baggage

 

I packed you up today
after selecting the perfect box.
I took the hat you gave me
the night it was cold,
the chalk from the elementary school
the blue one I stole,
the sticker I peeled from the fridge,
the blankets from my bed.
I carved off the skin on my arms
like the white meat on a Thanksgiving turkey.
I expertly washed you out of my hair
with bleach and chemicals.
And once all of it was
labeled, dated, bubble wrapped in case I get to unpack,
I dug my fingernails into my chest,
And became as empty inside,
as the shoebox I placed you in.

 

Bookshelves

 

And so you ask me to open
Like a library book
That promises a good story.
You ask me to press my tongue against my lips,
And spread my legs like pages,
Flip, and turn, and move forward.
But when I take too long to get to the point,
The words you choose are annoying,
Over-sharing,
Too much.
As though my life story,
Bound between leather holders,
And read by the masses,
Is too long.
Too many words.
Too much in general.
And so you pick me up,
And put me on the shelf,
Without another look.
So.
I collect dust,
Learn to tear out pages,
So that the next person who picks me up,
Won’t get bored.

 

 

 

Breathing Patterns

 

I learned to breathe in your arms,
pressed against your chest,
your heart setting the tempo.
Two beats in,
Two beats out.
Your skin became a compass
used to navigate life;
A bad day meant palms fused together
like two cars in a collision,
metal and shrapnel so intertwined
paramedics couldn’t tell my car from yours.
A good day meant finger tips on throats
Pressure, patience, and patterned bedsheets that
needed peeled in the morning.
And so it makes sense that when your skin settled into
Someone else’s,
I was gasping for air.

 

—

Lynne Schmidt (she/her) is a mental health professional and Master’s of Social Work student in Maine who writes memoir, poetry, and young adult fiction. Her unpublished memoir, The Right to Live: A Memoir of Abortion has received Maine Nonfiction Award and was a 2018 PNWA finalist, while her poetry has received the Editor’s Choice Award for her poem, Baxter, from Frost Meadow Review, and The Perfect Dress, was an honorable mention from Joy of the Pen. Her chapbook, Dead Dog Poems, was honorable mention from Pub House Books. Her work has appeared in Soft Cartel, RESIST/RECLAIM, Royal Rose, Sixty Four Best Poets of 2018, 2018 Emerging Poets, Frost Meadow Review, Poets of Maine, Poets of New England, Maine Dog Magazine, Alyss Literary, Her Kind Vida, and many others. She is the founder of AbortionChat, and has been and continues to be a featured poet at events throughout Maine. When given the choice, Lynne prefers the company of her three dogs and one cat to humans.  
Twitter: @LynneSchmidt  @Abortion Chat
Facebook: Lynn(e) Schmidt

Two Poems by Kat Giordano

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LIVING ALONE

 

you start putting cream in your coffee,
because in his memories of you
you’ll continue to drink it black.

you buy a brand-new vibrator
and leave it sitting out on your bed at all times
because there’s no one in your life now
for it to loom over, reminding them
they can’t make you feel good
and that feeling good is something you want
and that you can get what you want
without permission.

you rekindle your love for early 2000’s butt rock
with vocals that sound like microwaved,
boneless Eddie Vedder. you flood your brain
with Hoobastank and Creed and when you catch yourself
cringing on his behalf, you turn it up louder.

you think about that time he called you “chubby”
and order two medium pizzas from Dominos.

you remember his constant displeasure
at your lack of milk, leafy greens, and salad dressing
and let your fridge grow empty, your meager
cooking knowledge eroding under a pile of pizza boxes
and smiley-face takeout bags. you forget
how to make eggs, and it makes you feel lighter.

you think about getting that nose piercing
that he thought was stupid. you consider
selling photos of your feet and ass online,
but that has nothing to do with him.
you just want money. you just want to know
what each part of you is worth now,
used-up and haunted.

a few months pass,
you start excelling at work again,
you start to feel like maybe
there’s more ahead than behind you
and how sad that also is.

your friends Go Places
and get Good Deals on cute apartments.
they’re throwing parties, scratch-making meals
you’re paying 30 bucks for on GrubHub.
they’re buying gym memberships, essential oils.
they don’t get it, you’re the one who left,
you’re supposed to gracefully peel him off
like a too-small snakeskin and be reborn unscarred
and short-haired on a mountain somewhere,
like some kind of lifestyle blogger.

but that’s okay, you don’t need them,
you have your eggless mornings
your Coffee-Mate and Chad Kroeger,
a dozen writhing orgasms ahead of you
in that unwashed bed. i mean,
look at all the space in it.

 

 

 

♥  ♥  ♥

 

 

CREDIT CHECK POEM

 

when he left my place for the last time, I waited
just long enough to hear the elevator
clinking to life behind my bedroom wall
before I called you and peeled off my clothes.

and I guess that makes me an asshole,
guess that makes me a vessel that can’t stand
its own emptiness, won’t turn its hands
on itself for once, feel how deep that bottom is.

how do I tell them that you are not a sack
of packing peanuts, that I loved you before I could
picture you inside me? I know how it looks,
this room filled with so much steam it makes sense
I can’t perform grief in these clothes, how my voids
match your outlines so well you could have traced them,
but you can’t fake this kind of shit timing.

and is it even shit timing? and were all those nights spent
crying for each other with all of Pennsylvania
wedged between us not a ransom for this one
in my still-lit room, where my makeup melts
onto the thumb-worn touch screen of my iPhone,
every breath too heavy to hold itself up?
where I don’t know if it’s the pent-up lust or the exhaustion,
but I swear I can feel your weight on me from here
as your body idles into the receiver like a diesel engine?

I want to go back to that first night at my house
and harvest all that wasted heat between us.
I want to burn the flesh off every poem I swore
wasn’t a love poem, melt down the bones, let the pressure
of our bitten tongues mold these past six months
into thin, shiny plastic. we have enough sad irony
on this thing to charge every single cent of moral debt
and then some, so tell me what you want, baby.
tell me you’ve earned it. do it for us both.

 

—

 

Two Poems by Adrian Belmes

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this is not an admission of guilt

 

but there is the story where my parents steal branded glassware
from a fast casual fish house
returning enough times to smuggle a whole set
out past the dining families inside my mother’s purse
like the georgian wine and the polish vodka in the airplane boot
secure in her fake burberry bags

gucci is cheap she says

they go enough times that they might’ve just bought the glasses
elsewhere with the money spent on salmon and on swai

unsatisfied with fries
they ordered only the better fish
the diners watching
and stole the glasses

there is the story where my parents aren’t poor
that is the one they want you to believe.

 

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

 

we have the same conversation every time we talk

driving home
eating warm fries
and thinking about death.

there’s a comfort in not quite licking
all the salt from your hands.
a little always gets into the creases of
your pointer and your thumb.
that’s how you know you’re eating good,
when it lingers on you like a ghost.
that’s how you know that in your heart
you never missed that funeral
because you couldn’t leave the city
and you were afraid,
a little high but not enough to enjoy it,
just sad.

there’s nothing quite like remembering
the only reason you know a song
is because the man who introduced you
is a rapist now, but once a friend.
crying in the minivan, you can’t speak.
you’re liking a picture the same night he died
facing his brother down a barrel.
the salt cuts into your purlicue.
you lick it, but the sting, it stays.
you’re eating good, you tell yourself.
you never missed the funeral.

i hope you’re getting high enough.
i hope you’re doing alright.

 

—

Adrian Belmes is a reasonably depressed Jewish-Ukrainian poet and book artist residing currently in San Diego. He is editor in chief of Badlung Press and has been previously published in SOFT CARTEL, Philosophical Idiot, X-R-A-Y, and elsewhere. His chapbook, “this town and everyone in it”, is forthcoming from Ghost City Press. You can find him at adrianbelmes.com or @adrian_belmes.