you tell me your dreams about snakes.
there’s the lingering question of what
was happening it’s been constant, you
tell me, and i nod because i’m afraid of
snakes and i don’t have much to say
but you bug me by telling it’s probably
the phallic symbol as siri told you so
and i only laugh
but in my head maybe
it’s because you slithered your way into
our home without you knowing i knew.
i want to tell you that i dream about
snakes, too, and that they eat me whole
alive and well until their fangs pierce
right through my heart breaking every
string of vein constricting in my body
and i might add that the snake has the
same voice as you do when he answered
your call late at night to slip out of the
sheets i thought he only warmed for us
two that perhaps the snake is both of
us in context i’m not entirely sure
Ada Pelonia is a writer from the Philippines. Her work has appeared in Germ Magazine, Royal Rose Magazine, 101 Words, and elsewhere. Besides reading fictional books and reading anything that comes to her mind, she enjoys drinking tea during rainy days. She’s also on Twitter @_adawrites.
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
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.
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
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