Feed Me – Carrie Mumford

Once a guy took me to Point Pleasant Park in the rain and sat me on the rocks overlooking the ocean and fed me spaghetti he’d cooked from a Tupperware and told me he wanted to drop out of school and buy a boat and sail around the world with me. The spaghetti was dry and the next summer he fell in love with a boy at the yacht club.

xxx

Once a guy made me lobster and lasagna. He called his adopted nonna and she coached him over the phone on how to melt the butter, when to take the noodles out, how to rub the spices between his hands. We slept in dog-dirty sheets and he told me about his brother’s time in jail and how he himself had stolen a register full of cash once but that was okay because it was the guy’s own fault for leaving it open when he went in the back to get the pizza.

xxx

Once a guy cooked me plantains and showed me how to choose the perfect mango, how the sweetest meat was closest to the pit. He recited a poem he’d written for his ex about kissing on a bridge in the rain and told me she’d left of her own accord and that it was her fault and her fault alone. He told me to be good be sweet be kind when I left him a few months later, of my own accord.

xxx

Once a guy made me baloney sandwiches with mustard on brown and he’d doubled in size overnight. He told me about his new girlfriend, how her hair was curlier than mine and her bum bigger and how we were so different because she was a cheerleader and I was a point guard but he liked that about her. And then we went upstairs to his dad’s camera room. Antique cameras stared at us on the single bed with baby-blue sheets. His feet hung off the end and we had perfunctory sex because we had to. 

xxx

Once a guy ate snowflakes off my eyelashes. He rolled on top of me and my snowmobile suit from the seventies, waited for the snow to fall, licked it from my eyelids, my cheeks, my lashes. He told me the stars always made him think of the Tragically Hip and the tobogganing hill made him think of weed. He drove me home in his crappy car and told me my mom was bad for me, as if she were something I could quit, like cigarettes.

xxx

Once I made a guy shepherd’s pie because his dad had a heart attack. I borrowed a cookbook from my mom and spent four hours boiling and mashing and frying and baking, and then I dropped it off at his house. He answered the door in an open housecoat and boxers and wouldn’t let me come inside. Behind him, his ex said, “Who’s that?” and I still handed him the pie and he still took it. I never got my dish back.

Carrie Mumford has lived on both the East and West coasts of Canada, and many places in between. Currently, she lives in Calgary, Alberta with her husband, three naughty cats, and one rambunctious dog. Her first novel, All But What’s Left, is forthcoming in June 2018.

001 – Allison Morton

RoadVer2
“untitled” by Allison Morton

001

she looks into a well
she feels the space
running down
into the core of the planet
where it spins and stops and
she remembers photographs in boxes on shelves in the back room
musty carpet and broken windows taped over
puncture holes in her vision
she sees where he sleeps, placid,
dead not dead not anywhere not alive
either but still
so she opens boxes on shelves in the back room where he slept
the well where he hides things
is full
of space

 

 

Allison Morton is a poet, visual artist and filmmaker originally from Apollo Beach, FL. She received her BFA in Filmmaking from Ringling College of Art and Design and her MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics from the University of Washington, Bothell. Her work can be found on the cover of the current issue of Poetry Northwest, and in Peach Magazine, The Sonder Review, and others. You can find her on Twitter @allydmorton. 

 

First Week of First Grade – Natalie DeVaull-Robichaud

“He has trouble with transitions,” I explain to the social worker in her air-conditioned office. Two hours before, in class, he yelled out “I want to kill myself! I don’t belong in this school!” because (he later explained) he didn’t want to write anymore. They are wondering what is wrong. I ache in the cool plastic chair. There is a mirror on the wall where there should be a clock. There is my son who is different. I am glad there is organic milk in his snack bag that day as he shapes the magnetic toys on the table into an elaborate sculpture of triangles on triangles. The magnets are balls and sticks. He points to the silver magnetic ball in the center of the sculpture and says, “This is the atom of my mommy’s heart.”

Natalie DeVaull-Robichaud lives with her husband and son in Connecticut, where she teaches writing.

False Cognates – Miss Macross

False Cognates

he is a furry mammal he smells like cinnamon french toast he
always looks so warm

but sometimes i think he’s letting go of too much body heat he
looks like he’s using up too much energy trying not to be sad

i have bitter cold bony witch hands and
i can do nothing for him

Miss Macross is a Pittsburgh-based poet, tutor, witch, and painter. She is influenced by spacecraft, witchcraft, and personal experiences with trauma. Her work has been published in Philosophical Idiot, Rag Queen, Train, The Mantle, and Flash Fiction Magazine.

 

Riddle Locked – Erynn Pontius

Riddle Locked

I was forged.
Two look just like me;
In pockets I plinked,
but you lost me.
You said I open hearts,
but my body churns.
And I always let you in.

Erynn Pontius graduated from the University of Utah with a Bachelor of Arts in Writing and Rhetoric Studies and a minor in Creative Writing. She currently works for Weber State University. Her poems and short stories have appeared in The Hungry Chimera and The Canticle Literary Journal.