If only there could always be hamentaschen for breakfast:
little cookie triangles crumbling into coffee.
If only there was always coffee.
If only the coffee would grind itself—silently.
If only I craved tea in the morning and not coffee.
If only there was always optimal-temperature tea and time to read
during a rainstorm, soft light, a blanket.
If only in the rainstorm a cat named Edith found her way to me.
Or an Eddie. I would also take a male cat named Eddie
in a rainstorm, bedraggled, slightly grumpy.
If only Eddie would be willing to contemplate a name change
to something that better fits his personality. Or if not,
if only he’d let me tell everyone that Eddie is short for
Editorializer,
Edification,
One-half-of-a-set-of-identical-twins.
If only Eddie could gain the power of speech to tell me
that last one seems like a stretch.…
...continue reading
The sand squelches between my squirmy toes,
as I clutch my red bucket of curious creatures—
captured by my bubbling interest.
I venture closer to the ocean’s edge,
a shell suddenly slicing into my foot.
My blood mingles with sand and gravel,
like strawberry syrup and graham cracker crumbles.
The sea eagerly laps at my wounded skin,
salt sizzling against the rawness within.
My bucket topples, releasing its captives,
and I watch them scurry back to their homes.
I received a warning,
a debt to settle for my youthful curiosity.
A price in lifeblood,
transaction now complete.
– Lawren Coleman…
...continue reading
on this night I had a dream.
conjurations by the fairies’ midwife it would seem,
bringing me sweet visions
and courted by heart-strung decisions,
swimming in soft swan feathers
while chasing him bound by their divine tethers.
in the morning when I wake,
the fog of courtship clears that memory made by mistake.
then I shall cut the cord and cringe,
taking her sickly medicine from a sharp syringe.
i painfully pull out his gilded arrow
and shake the nightmare out of my bone and marrow,
purging misty pansy dew
and wipe my eyes to be cleansed of you.
i have tossed and churned in heat,
covered in salt and musk of a thin stained bedsheet.
somewhere, you rest inside different arms,
so I’ll turn over and wish for another’s charms.…
...continue reading
Announce the Morning. Yes
by going about Your day. Yes
raise Your well-rested Flesh,
dress It & take It to Café Colao.
Note the warmth in warmth.
Note the Sun & Clouds.
Note the Bus Driver & His
solemn, stoic face. Note
the patience it takes to wait
for the walk sign to turn white.
Note the Woman as You enter,
whose car has gone missing…
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Click: the door is locked
His mind unlocked
Watch him through the spyhole
Scratching at his skin
Biting his lips till they bleed
The only way he can feel
The only way to stay real
In the white room.
He knows he’s being watched
But he needs that prying eye
To stop himself imploding
To cling to outside things
No need for any mirrors
In this gaping space of ice
The shining happens inside him
In the white room.…
...continue reading
I am an hourglass
constantly turned
before time is through
– Christiana Doucette
Author’s Note: “Life’s Line” was written during one of those life moments where everything turns on its head. The expected does not happen. Instead, life suddenly reorients around a new, uncomfortable normal. The time one thought one had, runs through the fingers the wrong direction, and there is somehow less, or more. Always something in place of what one thought one would have.…
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I.
They call me a monster,
ignoring the true Frankenstein,
who crafted me
from stitched sinews and mismatched
skin and lopsided limbs—
an amalgamation of forgotten scraps—
he who activated my heart with a
defibrillator,
then abandoned me,
fearful
of his own creation.
II.
They call me a monster,
screaming when I approach
or murmuring when I leave.
Flinging darted glances
as I stand in a grocery store line,
holding a birthday cake with one candle.
Don’t they know
this skin was not chosen?…
...continue reading