Try compost – scraps / piled into a heap. The forgotten things / are begging for another life. Let’s say you could / get the dirt to sing.
wobbling from some near-by breeze / reaching down as the hillside / where her shadow should be
we’ve started to disassemble the land mines / and plant roses and poems instead.
Submissions are open for the MAYDAY Poetry Micro Chapbook Contest! Deadline to submit is July 31.
Wall, enemy, ally, shadow, tree, a toddler / given freedom to roam, requires one // banana-nut muffin, many hands, 56 / minutes to walk one Brooklyn city block.
Did you see a hapless, hunted woman, baby in arms? Her stare’s hollow. // Ahead of her, there’s a slithering line beaded with nowhere people.
There’s nothing to eat but fruit from baskets sent by friends // and I couldn’t care less about the fate of the world.
I think I am my savior’s thoughts, the stubborn beautiful ones / who refuse to go. It’s a temple in here / though I do not know // the prayers.
i want metaphors to taste as good / as bread soaked in milk
Hunger sneaks up // like two fingers flicking a pink / succulent moon.