Paralyzing,
hits like a flood, don’t you feel that?
Sinking inside a wave of minor punctures,
out of breath, gasping, drowning, can’t die,
by all means, it is above each one of our
pay-grades, capabilities, willingness
to raise our heads above it, and see
this is a world of muddy waters,
everywhere is under the waves,
everywhere is a flood-zone, don’t you
feel
that, wherever you look,
don’t you feel paralyzed? Being bitten constantly
by piranhas that are supposed to be everywhere,
attacked, attacked, attacked, constantly,
constantly… constantly…
can’t move, it is everywhere, a siege, don’t
you… feel… that? I do, oh god oh god
I DO,
even when I reach out, when I hold hands
in that mud, I feel the hands of others
that are drowning as I do,
but don’t want to die alone.… ...continue reading
The dove on the bare, bald branch
…………..An overcast sky makes them look black
Camera’s exposure too high, too bleak to survive ultra-white
…………..rays
Fly away fat dove, don’t let the cold
catch you
Winter is a filter
…………..To rid the world of weaklings
Besides those who warm their souls smoothly
…………..With hot whiskey and jazz
Just don’t let the drinks catch you
The dove on the bald, bare branch
Some of us just have to freeze
…………..Our picture comes out too dark, it’s too bright out
Winter white; snow blindness; thimble fingers
…………..Beer and ponche keep us heated
Some of us just have to lose
– Abigail Romero
Author’s Note: “The dove on the bare, bald branch” is one of those poems that really needs a chance to be paired with experience.… ...continue reading
Her name was Yuki. Her waist-length hair fell to the ground like a crescent moon. In her hand, a short blade glimmered: Snow Flower. It bloomed like drifting snow beneath the twilight glow. But tonight, it carried another name: Red Snow.
Snow usually meant purity — like the carefree childhood days she remembered walking through fresh snow. Back then, her husband’s family and hers were longtime friends; the two families often shared tea. At that time, her father was not yet the respected high-ranking officer he would become. Everything was peaceful.
But she knew peace was impossible now — or perhaps this was the calm before the storm. Why choose today? Because every year on this day, their wedding anniversary, her husband drank heavily, his intoxication rising gently.… ...continue reading
Small town Mississippi, way deep down, stuck
Like the roots of a garden weed that won’t let go
Bound to it’s native hold
Holding on to the one thing we know
Racism they call it
We have to choose a side
We really seem to want to
Watching the other kind celebrate
Who revels like that?
We would never do such a thing
We wear a nicer hat… ...continue reading
I am vacant-
a screaming churning chasm
of possibility
both malicious and marvelous.
My mind is an empty chalkboard
with hastily erased marks,
vanished to make room
for the teachings
of my next glossator.
I will be
your Athenian and
your Spartan,
your Madonna
and your Whore.
At a single word,
I would lick
your wounds (an ever
subservient nurse)
and climb into bed
with you after (debase
me however, so long as
you say it is my purpose).… ...continue reading
The parking lot was empty. It usually was when I got here. I smoked a cigarette until the rest of the guys arrived. My headlights lit up the marsh.
“Hey man, quit sitting around. Frank said the last guy to the dock has to wash down the boat today.”
“Good morning to you too, Danny. And it looks like we might be too late to avoid that.” “Damn it! This is like my fourth day in a row! Come on, get out of your damn truck.”
“Stop yelling. It’s too early.” I hopped out of my truck and threw my cigarette on the pavement.
“Hey you dropped … Woah academic probation?” I snatched the paper out of Danny’s hand. Balled it up. And tossed it into the open window of my truck.… ...continue reading
Last week, I went to the supermarket and saw
her eyes etched into the tomatoes.
My mother whispered,
she’s pretty if that’s your type,
but everything beautiful eventually turns to dust
Like wilting lettuce.
and I think about the time I told my husband
to get red onions and he came back with white,
as though color were only a suggestion,
as though wanting could be mistranslated.
– Amber Moss… ...continue reading