It is not to lower the pail
to steal a sloppy drop of water.
It’s not geometry to want.
Not controls to fiddle.
Not to lift.
Not control tower.
Not diving beneath.
Not to cram air into the vial
nor to trace the outer cast.
Certainly not ergonomic.
But to bend the violin,
to feel through the body its curved harrow.
Erin Wilson has contributed poems to West Texas Literary Review, San Pedro River Review, Minola Review, and Split Rock Review, with work forthcoming from The American Journal of Poetry. She lives and writes in a small town in northern Ontario, Canada.
Photo by Johanna Vogt on Unsplash
Ambivalent my throat shouts your name, mama
to see you breathing and breathing more
and the circle of killings and abusing entices again.
I heard my dad straddling and maintaining whisky
Burned Pale Chipped
You had it all mama, you had the walnut voluble mouth
speaking iterative hollows of time and its bent motion
You had the emporium of statues and movements.
Life existed in your eyes, and I saw it sincerely
with a callow foot, you walked and created squares
I cursed the moment, life played you
I cursed the moment father abused you
Unruffled Oblique Esurient
Mother, I faded myself to colour your skin
burying myself each day to provide you faint candlelight
Behind the shadows of blasphemous engine sounds
I knitted pillows and dreams
This moment is insane now I might lose myself
mama, hold on… I will knit my skin once again
to catch your life and slumber of peace.
Hold on, mama.
Devika Mathur, an emerging poetess from the country of love India is a published poet and her work has been published in Visual Verse, Thistle mag, Indian Periodicals, and is upcoming in Kitaab.org among others.
Feature Image by Claudia Soraya
Go to yourself fully and never inquire again.
Put a little bit of skin into the painting, step away, and cock your head.
Check it off the to-do list and move on.
Stop lingering baby girl.
Start moving from top to bottom without thinking too much.
Start moving like a woman.
Take a back bend over the to-do list, check off new perspectives.
Upside-down, blood rushing to your head, hair dusting the tile,
belly-facing-up…check off reorganize. This is how to move like a woman.
You have a cute belly button, believe it.
Your waist is private terrain and you were given muscles to hike;
place your own hands there, feel how woman it is to be a mountain.
Place your hands there, check off intimacy.
This is a please seat yourself life.
On Saturday morning I met my father for breakfast.
The sign read please seat yourself.
Every booth was taken.
As a sophomore at Saint Mary’s College, Kelly Burke is studying English: Literature and Secondary Education. She hopes to be a high school English teacher one day. The writings of Sarah Kay and Courtney Kampa initially sparked Kelly’s love for poetry.
a note from Alaire…
Although never physically assaulted beyond a pinch, I’m still nervous about personal safety because of living at college when a serial rapist was on the loose. My roommate and I slept with the windows closed, no air conditioning, one Virginia summer because we were so afraid. The rapist did strike next door, not more than 15 feet from my window. I went off to a job interview in another city that day, not knowing that the news had been announcing “Virginia Avenue coed raped” all day. My friends were in a panic because I wasn’t there to answer calls.
I never told my parents of the danger for fear they’d pull me out of school. I was in the first coed class. I didn’t want anything to block my success.
Switching on the Light
I wake in the dark.
A man stands silhouetted
in the doorway. I try to scream,
find my voice sleep-paralyzed
like my legs.
Shhh, it’s only a dream,
whispers my husband, pulling
me close. My moan fades.
My adrenalin soars.
I wake in the dark.
A man stands silhouetted
in the doorway. Repeat,
repeat. Over twenty years
I blame the serial rapist
who haunted college nights.
The one time my roommate
was gone, he climbed
through the window next door.
How can that other woman
ever sleep again?
At work one day, I explain
to a friend why I’m dragging.
This man in the dream
never speaks or comes
toward you? she asks.
Maybe he’s not an intruder.
When you were little,
didn’t your daddy stand
at the door like that to check
Alarie Tennille graduated from The University of Virginia in the first class admitting women. She serves on the Emeritus Board of The Writers Place in Kansas City, Missouri. Alarie’s latest poetry collection is Waking on the Moon. Please visit her at alariepoet.com and check out her new blog there.
Smart blonde in Bebe Rexha style texts her Albanian-Serbian boyfriend and promises the holy land to their overrated love. I have never been to Albania before. All Tirana witches will make me so hilarious just smiling while all chains are breaking.
Klaudia Rogowicz. Born in 1987 in Zabrze, Poland. Polish poet, drama, screen and playwriter, novelist. She had published many e-books and paperback books. She writes her poems both in English and Polish.
Photo by Brooke Cagle on Unsplash