Front Page

Returning home

In 100, by Wyatt on February 5, 2019 at 7:00 am

A roiling melange of utterly peaceful, vibrantly social, and terrifyingly, familiarly lonesome. I am practicing being here. I drink my tea and eat my banana sitting amidst silent, empty walls after Lara leaves. And I plot my day. It will take sustained work to rewrite old patterns of worry and solitude. I know what I need to do, and have begun to do it. But it is not easy, or fun. The light at the anus at the end of these mental bowels I crawl through is self-respect and confidence in myself like I have never known. A worthwhile goal.

Advertisements

Share some spare change

In by Gracie on February 4, 2019 at 5:30 pm

I found your spare change in the couch cushions
and wondered what you dreamt of last night.
I found your underwear on the floor
and was curious if you have ever broken a bone.
How so?
I saw one of your socks near the hamper.
It looked lonely.
Even though you never do.
Maybe you shed it like a second skin.
I think of the things I do not and can not know about you.
Sometimes, I try to backbend into that space.
I stretch and reach but all I find is
your change,
your underwear
and your single sock

to calm the mother

In by Bunc on February 3, 2019 at 9:52 pm

sauvignon stains of nostalgia which fade
to shrieks that drip red from where his door is,
tiny tooth buds blossom into switchblades
and slice her dreams open like caesuras

but never pauses. it flows unbroken,
as sure as the dawn of each brand new way
to fail her like a vow, only spoken
in old cathedrals that serve cabernet

grapes once abundant lay dead on the vein
ever since her rivers broke, post-parted,
and piped into empty cages, mundane
as these calendar pages discarded

a dry syrah, a life compressed in two
to calm the mother, any red will do

 

(Note: This is a reinterpretation of “Calm the Mother. Any Red Will Do” by Scheherazade Washington Parrish)