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CAPITAL LOVE
by Timothy Pilgrim She apologized for her affair, confessed need to see new men every year or two or three, asked tearfully for a metaphor. He said love is a purple orchid arcing down in morning sun from high planter in solarium. A wilted orchid. Hanging at daybreak. |
FROZEN by Lynn Crounse |
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OUT DEMONS OUT
by John Grey The more I love her in absentia, the more I hate myself. To drive the adored away is to hone feeling into an arrow head and plunge it into my chest. I sit here in the kitchen sipping cold coffee and staring out the window. I'm like a Christian waiting to be martyred or a soldier about to go over the hill. My grief begs to disagree with the songbirds. And if I wrong the warm, bright sun I'm sorry. But I recycle everything into sorrow. A new day's just a patchwork of the old. My thoughts will whip me like a cat-o-nine-tails. My tongue will loudly curse the use I put it to. I will rip myself raw, invoke every cruel tool this side of slaughter. And then I will wait until her self-hate rages, ousts her anger. I will make more coffee, stare out more windows, wait for her return. |
FACT/DIS by Kyle Hemmings |
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#3
by Stephanie Anne Williams Singsong wisps meet wordless chugs, stealing Bloody the apparition that creates death, alight— Quantum trysts that mark the days between rue And silence, the chasm closed, somehow steely, Breath and bite murdered at witch's tug But she bathes in her youth, making splash and Kerosene lift toward the burn, the magic red in Her eyes— and with a clunk of her lid, pull Of her brow, she feasts, nibbling, on spells, and Croaks brillig on charms Cloaked maniacal hex, chipped tooth, politely Dressed in gauze— smashed foul amber click, Clack, exchange of brute for sinner's smudge, Scarlet mark deemed viper flash, cast on Cauldrons, demigod ache And these, these candy-coated words, the trite Wound of language, preciosa— carved in still-life Apertures and overtures of mixed fruit, coiling Eternally, like the magma queen you were, Dipped in apathy, the only "He" to ever whirl— And turn, and care, pilfered in light smirk. |
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