By Rebecca Ferlotti
Posted on
Sun patinas snow mounds,
causes boy’s dirt bike
to slither to skitter no helmet.
Salt-trucked boots clack pavement
to car,
looking for blankets or bandages,
but it’s just my ex’s cigarette whispers
and shrimp dumplings half-bagged,
frostish unfeeling,
taste of
whine
on my lips.
Note: This piece was originally published by The Carroll Review in 2015.…
...continue reading
By Jack Harvey
Posted on
Let me tell you
chiefs and chefs,
I don’t know,
haven’t the faintest idea,
how to accept all this honor;
how to show, without fraud
or display
my deep feeling,
my gross emotion,
and all in all
thanes, your gleaming
eyes bespeak an honor
not mine, but of all
those who died, pro patria;
gutted like perch,
their holy stink
ascends to Valhalla.
But on.
Let me say thanks;
my parts are here,
arms, legs, eyes;
the net has not been
cast over my
darling anatomy,
eagles, no thanks to you-
in the baldric my scars
start and end.…
...continue reading
By Rebecca Dietrich
Posted on
Blossom curls
on the couch
…………paws
over her head
…………head tilted right
back twisted left
…………tail dangling
……………………over
……………………the edge
not very ladylike
she’ll sleep like that
…………for hours
me?
jealous of her spine
By Abbie McCabe
Posted on
Many of my concerns are municipal in nature.
The cars on Savin Hill
assume weird angles. The trees bend,
one by one, to the November wind
ripping through right on time. Trees
aren’t always prepared but I’ve learned
November is a hazard. Limbs detach
from trunks and the broken cores
leak Styrofoam on the road. Floods
of teenaged Cristo Rey students
flow from the subway station and
cross the street without looking,
exactly like I do. I jacket myself
just like everyone does these days–
one puffy sleeve at a time. Buttons
separate traffic signals and walk signs.
I ignore their pebbly symbols
just like everyone else. It’s too cold.
I’m tired of standing still.
By Rebecca Dietrich
Posted on
the last beam
of evening glow
…………dancing
over blades of grass
windows rolling down
wind whooshing
through my hair
…………his hand
grasping my thigh
i tug my sweater
pretending i’m shy
then lightly
…………slap him away
we count deer
…………grazing
along the parkway
one
two
three
wondering
if they too
…………play
little games
By William Teets
Posted on
It’s not that I don’t trust motherfuckers, I just didn’t trust him. Something I heard somewhere, sometime, about never eating at a place called Mom’s or playing poker with a dealer named Doc. But he didn’t cheat me out of money playing stud, he cheated with my girl. I don’t know any sayings about shit like that, but that’s neither here nor there. I had plans to leave her anyway. Smelled soaps of others on her soft skin. I’m not one to stand alone in the chapel, a crown of thorns on my head. Makes no sense. Besides, it’s not like I can call the Righteous Love Police. And now, she’s rides in a BMW—I think he’s a fucking dentist or doctor of letters—and I watch sunsets with a dog named Blue and a bottle of Johnny Red.…
...continue reading
By Jeffrey Zable
Posted on
I distinctly told her that I didn’t want tomato on my hot
pastrami and cheese sandwich, but sure enough when
I got home and took the sandwich out of the wrapper,
I saw that on both halves there was tomato pressed against
the cheese, which made me say out loud, “Damn it. . .
I made it clear that I didn’t want tomato in my sandwich.
That I don’t like tomato in my sandwiches!”
Deciding not to take it back—mainly out of hunger—
I pulled out the tomato, which had done a fine job
permeating the cheese in both halves.
I then started eating while looking at the tomato lying there
on the paper, wondering why they even put tomato in sandwiches
or anywhere else for that matter.…
...continue reading