by Linda Lerner Vivienne Haigh-Wood Eliot (first wife of T.S. Eliot)5/28/88—1/22/’47Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald (wife of F Scott Fitzgerald)7/24/1900—1/22/’48 I could have been one of those crazy ladieslike Vivienne or Zelda confined to wifean institution for life, if born in another time my words discovered in a husband’s booksas Zelda did: “Mr. Fitzgerald,” she wrote,“seems to
by Ellen Peckham This Sunday morning given to translations I find myself in tears reading a poem of my own but experienced afresh in Spanish. It recounts elements of your death that having, I thought, at last assimilated I can speak aloud in English. But find, memory resurrected, an effigy newly delivered. The force
by Bruce McRae As you may surmise,we hold our meetings at night,our torment unreasonable,our pallor make-up won’t allay.Witches convening in a moonlit glade.Criminals washing the bloodoff their roughened hands.The happy-go-lucky undead,eschewing brains for a bucket of coffee. We pledge allegiance with a yawn.We sit. We stand. We kneel,beseeching sleepless gods and demons.But never do we
by Michael Steffen Headstones sprout in ragged rows on hills, graves with potted plants and loved ones praying for the bliss of their dearly departed, whom I imagine are bellying up in the hereafter, shotgunning beers, guzzling altar wine, marinating in bottles of Three Penis Liquor under the blue neon of disbelief. I mean, is
by Ian Ganassi Whichever box I open it will be the wrong box. The longer it goes on the deeper the inflammation. You don’t need a microscope to see the devil;Most likely he’ll want to shake you by the hand. But he’s not the only one. As Freud said, “The patients are disgusting!” Off with
by Omobola Osamor I find it under your side of the bed.I wondered what you wrote; I gave up my search long ago.We spar, laugh, and share a bottle of wine in my head.How does the world continue when mine has fallen apart?How do the stars shine when mine has disappeared?How can the ground be
by Samantha Duncan what if a machine could water our plants sing our child to sleep travel to ‘96 and say the shitty thing to the boy who said the shitty thing first what a time to transfer our makeup to another’s pillowcase after dinner and three episodes and protest signs made with a shared
by Jonathan Fletcher Though nearly thirty, I turn back into a six-year-old boy on the corner of your bed. I’m still afraid of the dark. I need a nightlight, my mother’s pats atop my back, before I can fall asleep. I ask you to leave the lights bright. With annoyance, you dim the room, remind
by VA Smith Watch me bathe myself in the coolblues, grays, and sages of the livingroom I have filled with mutedleathers, nubby, Klee-esque rugs,Carrara marble poured over manteland counter. When his stainless-steel bowl fliesinto the refrigerator, bounces coleslaw across the floor, confettiscabinets with cabbage, my eyesclose to Yo Yo Ma bowing Bach’sCello Sonata in G Minor Prelude,open
by Laura Goldin After an earlier incident your brain is running with delays in both directions. For alternative service between thought patterns, please exit your head at the approaching paradigm shift. Curtsying begins with you and makes a better ride for everyone. Consider giving ground to pregnant and disgruntled persons, bearing in mind that not