Author: Dying Dahlia Review

3 Poems – Kathy Gardiner

Lovebug

Crusted over,
my love wound
grows
a scab
not unlike
a black scarab,
scuttling.

 

Passed on

Here’s how history is handed on:
one day
the people we check our facts by
aren’t there anymore
to ask.

 

Song

Our very sharing
is an act to create
a trembling world.
So long as no one hears us.
The words of one,
so softly pressed against
my inner coloured life,
are the tender start
of a velvet deep
in which I drown,
warmly.

— 

Kathy Gardiner studied English Lit for the reading lists, but has since escaped to the world of language teaching. From Galway, she now lives in Roscommon where she teaches literacy to adults from Syria. Her work has appeared in Crossways and Hidden Channel zine.

 

 

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

siblings – Sara Matson

siblings

bloodied voices                across
the clear phone
invoking aeonian histories
                                             context as a flightless bird

tight swallows
carry sympathy in armfuls
jutting under elbows and
                                             staining fingertips
you offer infection to your
open wound
of a sister
and roll your eyes at the               dusty evening
when fevers curve under shut
eyelids                 wind between cilia
to proliferate

hide in the cusp
of my hand,                      brother
spin these silks until they’re invisible
and pass its smoothness
let the fibers sap what
they need and you don’t

those that love you
will wring you thoroughly
and every drop will
count

Sara Matson’s writing can be found or is forthcoming in Rabid Oak, Mannequin Haus, Anti-Heroin Chic, FIVE:2:ONE, Burning House Press, A) Glimpse) Of), Poached Hare, OCCULUM Journal, Dream Pop Press, Waxing and Waning, and elsewhere. She lives in Chicago with her rad husband + cats, and tweets as @skeletorwrites

What She Knew – Sue Powers

She had a birthday, became thirty, became morbid and suffering and told her husband she would bear no more children, that inherent in birth is the sentence of death, that all childbearing is selfish, an illusion of immorally and how well she knew that she would die soon (what is thirty, forty more years compared to eternity?), that she was powerless, that her only life was moving along a path she could not remember freely choosing and she would not know all experience, live all the lives, reach all the corners that she might, but if nothing else, she said, she wished better for her unborn offspring than this anguish, this knowledge of nothingness-after-life.   

Take an aspirin, he said. Not unkindly.

Sue Powers has an array of publishing credits, among them Saturday Evening Post. She’s the recipient of a fellowship & grant from the Illinois Arts Council in Prose and two of her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She has 21 fiction publications.

 

 

Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash