It may take a weird coincidence to make you feel relaxed
It may take the special touch of fine frost to turn
your head into a bulletin board.
We gathered, around the TV to watch the latest news. I thought
I had spotted some of your mates but could not say
It may take ice and fingers of flakes
to write about how you had danced your night away
to the bombing sound of rock and roll
In a mortuary, a young woman lay. She was
my sister, they say
Khaloud Al-Muttalibi is a poet and translator. She resides in the United Kingdom. She is the author of six poetry collections. She has also translated and edited two separate anthologies. Her poetry has been published in numerous magazines and journals, including After the Pause, The Glasgow Review of Books, Anapest, Harbinger Asylum, Ink Sweat & Tears and Poetry24.
He’s breathing so I can’t.
I hate him for being.
He takes a pretty girl, I try not to watch.
He excels and I cannot move.
Aging on my couch. My heart is skipping beats again.
Nothing bad ever happens to the perfect ones, like him.
Why not just once? Everything is so damn uneven.
I am still being punished.
My heart is a dirt basement; sometimes I feel nothing.
And here he is again, to make my day even worse.
Sharon Ava Ezekiel is a registered nurse, attorney and native Ohioan. She has performed with a dance ensemble and loves all four-legged creatures. Her work, “The Storm Cellar”, was published in Flash Fiction Magazine.
I need a job and an apartment, but to get a job
I need an address and a phone number
and a driver’s license and a social security card.
I walk back to my “office” at the pay phone.
A middle-aged woman with a three-year-old granddaughter
tells me it’s always hard at the beginning
but you adjust and you apply for as many as possible
since a help-wanted ad may not mean
any help is wanted just now.
The guy with the crucifixion t-shirt
(SOMEONE TO LOOK UP TO)
complains that his baked potato is too hard
and his iced tea too icy
and leaves no tip at all. I try to
treat each shift as an emergency:
you’ve got starving people,
so feed them! Forget that you
will have to do this tomorrow. Forget
that you will have to be
alert enough to drive home tonight.
Amanda Laughtland lives in the suburbs of Seattle. She is the author of Postcards to Box 464 (Bootstrap Press) and a handful of chapbooks. Most recently, her work has been published in E·ratio and One Sentence Poems.
It may be morning
but I bring you
a touch of the night.
The night black night
that I will unfold
and bequeath to you,
whatever you may do.
There is nothing
you can do.
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Find Lynn on Facebook or visit her blog here.
Photo by Danielle Dolson on Unsplash
Looking back, it felt brave
to have touched
any man, like beating
a train across the rails.
He told me I was off mine–
conjured the words
testimony, veracity and sides.
Rain and all the days made us
hostages. The animals boys
become. My blood
drying in the banks
of bent grass, their tips,
pins inside pores,
blades, a stray cat’s
mouth. The silent
rivers and ghosts—
disturbed fever sleep.
My dreams are green
branches for whipping,
an exorcism of cells.
Terri Muuss is a social worker, director, performer, speaker & author whose poetry has received three Pushcart nominations. Her first book, Over Exposed, was released in 2013 and in 2016 Terri co-edited an anthology of NY women poets entitled Grabbing the Apple. Terri has performed her one-woman show, Anatomy of a Doll, around the US and Canada since 1998. Her second book, Godspine, is forthcoming through 3:A Taos Press.
Feature Image by Priscilla Du Preez