Contributed By: Marcus Slease
we’re freakin
growin
old so why
bother with
the promises
oh my brother
oh sis fluffing
our chariots
for the masses
our ears
good &
torn &
what
is broken say
to heat &
torment say
we have not
found the rock
have not left
the garden, oh
Return to table of contents for Issue 2 Winter 2010
The nightingale is plucking out its feathers. So what if it pulls them all out? I bought you a flower. You said it had faded. It fades. So what? Are you done judging me or with your jealousy tests? It’s just two kisses on the cheek. So what? At night, you set two shot glasses […]
The island slays us. Morning. I arise and spurn the dawn over the eastern horizon. The east is where his body washed ashore: bone-colored board still leashed to bloating ankle and fin sticking up like a white shark beached among the rocks. Both poached by the coming storm— only the third of its size to […]
When I’m small enough to still wear white tights and lacy white panties with my navy blue sailor dress, we go to the funeral home in Ringgold. I walk into a crowd of people talking in hushed voices, looking into a box. I’m too short to see what’s in the box and I know better […]
