Category: Poetry

Landscapers remove
weedy bushes
in smoke
from distant fires.

A dead-looking sky 
inert in a cloud coffin. 

Saws blare.  Branches
heap up.   

The crew leaves us
with more light
that I stand in,
briefly, before
returning to
our closed-up house. 

– Kenneth Pobo… ...continue reading

Home reeks of lime
and mildew. We hoist
a box spring through the second-
floor window—
dirt beneath creme brulee nails,
tip-toeing around next door’s
double panes, the clatter
of a dead woman’s rose-colored
dresser drawers echoes
in the afternoon.

– Rebecca Ferlotti

Note: This piece was originally published in Mock Orange Magazine (2013, now defunct)… ...continue reading

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

– Ron Torrence… ...continue reading

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.”

– Rebecca Ferlotti

Note: This piece was originally published in Wingless Dreamer (2021)… ...continue reading

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. 

– Kenneth Pobo… ...continue reading

—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.

– Rebecca Ferlotti

Note: This piece was originally published in the now-defunct The Carroll Review in 2015.… ...continue reading

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… ...continue reading