Contributed By: Bilal Shaw, Ghalib, Tony Barnstone
In the inner workings of the tulip,
a red scar burns hot.
The farmer’s blood sears him;
he’s relieved when lightning burns the crop.
Here’s the thing:
until the bud blooms it feels secure.
Despite its collected heart,
the flower’s dream is torn apart.
I’m too weak to bear
this impatient grief
—a straw in the flame’s teeth,
my knuckles burning hot.
(Ghazal 155)
Return to table of contents for Issue 12 Winter 2018.
Again I recall her tear-glazed gaze. My heart and liver call out, thirsting for my lover. Doomsday had not yet paused for breath when I recalled the time you left. Oh, Desire, your simplicity makes…
Love, I can’t own you, but give me lunacy, at least. Let my last lunacy be your legacy, at least. Don’t cut all ties with me. Let me hate you and you hate me, at…
VERMONT EXIT RAMPS by Neil Shepard Big Table Publishing 50 pages reviewed by Tony Whedon Four decades ago Leo Marx defined the central conceit of the American pastoral as the steam locomotive breaking a nineteenth…
And all our yesterdays and tomorrows join / like river to sea to rain to river. Again.
I exhale fogged frost, trying to mimic the way smoke slid from your chapped lips. goosebumps rise like braille across my back. I look over my shoulder, as if you might have come back for me, as if we might be together once more— me; caught like a mouse between your arms, you; snapping your […]
fire tries the rotten planks soft-surround like my rotten toes & fungal nails brittle bones osteoporotic names for my hands & what they say could peel away the bark & heart where my potato bugs & larvae scramble, lay their secrets to impure oxygen & light in lichen lattice they stand for something , move […]
