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
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
All my girls
I keep losing babies
Each one of them I name Hope;
I braid their souls into my own
then tie it round my throat.
Whenever I try to forget
Put down and walk away
The noose cinches tight
And gives me pause to stay.
They keep saying, “Try again!
We don’t know why this breaks.”
So I keep losing babies
That are turning into snakes.
They slither through my bones.
They eat my blood and eyes.
All I can see is death
Crawling from my thighs.
My son keeps Mimics
in his room.
He doesn’t feel them
eat his heart.
He can’t even see
their pointy teeth.
“My dad gave this to me.”
He has let them endear themselves.
He protects his perceived treasures.
He cannot see through the deceit.
My son keeps lies
in his heart.
He doesn’t let them
bring him down.
He tries to pretend
they are not bribes.
It is the only thing his dad gives him.
Ellie Hudson has a bachelor’s in psychology from Meredith College. She lives in Kentucky with her best friend/husband and two wonderful sons. She likes strumming her ukuleles, cross-stitching, coffee, cows, and playing table-top games with friends. She has been previously published in The Rising Phoenix Review.
Photo by Gabriele Diwald on Unsplash
my love wound
a black scarab,
Here’s how history is handed on:
the people we check our facts by
aren’t there anymore
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,
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