By Ron Torrence
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my country tis of thee—
invade women’s bodies
deport non-white people
beat up leftist voices
my country tis of thee—
no food for the poor
no meds for the poor
no homes for the poor
my country tis of thee—
cut down the trees
poison the water
pollute the air
my country tis of thee—
sweet land
of tyranny
for thee i grieve
By Rebecca Ferlotti
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I drip paint on the neighbor’s lilies
from the balcony above,
pluck leaves from branches
parked next to my house.
I throw them off
as peace offerings. The flowers cry—
milky,
stained.
At night,
I push a glass of water
off the ledge. It shatters
over daisies. Their lights
flicker. The dog
barks. They say, “It must’ve been
a chipmunk.”
Note: This piece was originally published in Wingless Dreamer (2021)…
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By Kenneth Pobo
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Max Ernst, oil on canvas
February,
snowdrops
by the side
of the house.
Petal light
chases winter
away. Blossoms
last a couple
of weeks or so,
pack pleasure
into brevity. Soon
crocuses will purple,
pink, and yellow
early March, blooms
we welcome, doomed
to wither.
By Rebecca Ferlotti
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—for antwerp
where cobblestones crunch toes
and elevators plateau:
basement resale lamp shop,
mudslide bikes, traveling
piano…
window display decorator
fumbles hulk-green
zippo.
bags of bottles chime
as we cross underwater
to the wooden robot.
we’re already mixing tequila and vodka. tonight
we’re hoping for the best.
Note: This piece was originally published in the now-defunct The Carroll Review in 2015.…
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By Joslin K. Floyd
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I want to turn sixteen again
Cry and rip my hair out and
fantasize
of leaving a brain matter portrait on my mother’s wall
I want to feel full again
I hate this empty
I hate this light
I am perpetually in a hospital,
prodded
By doctors who do not pretend to care
Initials in my side, memorializing love I
never felt
This light is harsh
It cuts me
Leaves nothing to the imagination
I may not escape it
I may not turn back to when I was
so young,
Free…
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By Rebecca Ferlotti
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When you got out of the car to hug me,
I was the only person on earth,
and my troubles slipped like paint
drips (in a bedroom, somewhere in Ohio).
It’s fresh outside. The white buds of a bush
can’t keep their eyes open and there might be
cloud consequences in the after-
noon. For now, my nails are red and my face is
peeling from sunburn. You’re out
of your red car with your arms around me
still. And I can’t shake the feeling
something’s wrong and you’re not telling.
But I don’t ask. I just wait for you
to break the silence.
Note: This piece was previously published in the Cuyahoga County Public Library Poetry Anthology (2015)…
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By Kenneth Pobo
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The garden cries out “Help! Please weed me now.”
A muggy day, but I do as I’m told.
Before starting I see a red dahlia, wow!
The garden cries out “Help! Please weed me now.”
I say “Chill, I’m ready. Trust my know-how.”
I pull and pull, stop to drink something cold.
The garden cries out “Help! Please weed me now.”
A muggy day, but I do as I’m told.