i have poetry written between my thighs,
the way lilted words are written on manuscripts,
relics discovered in an ancient church.
an overgrown holy ground,
i can hear the breathy hymns escape
when i nick my own skin.
what lonely devouts worshipped here?
laying venerating kisses on the crossing of my legs,
placing flowers at the taut base of my neck,
bowing before the altar of my breast?
let me arise on my own altar:
wrapping myself in smoky incense and
as baptismal sweat glistens crystalline
from the effort.
Ehlayna Napolitano is a writer and editor, based in Providence, Rhode Island. She currently freelances as a copy editor and reporter, and has forthcoming work in Moonchild Magazine and The Long Island Literary Journal. She tweets @ehlaynanaps and writes at scarletepithets.tumblr.com.
I Am Constantly Seeking Reassurance
My thoughts are homeless & stealthy.
They make an orange moat
of my tongue,
constellation of moans that would confuse
farmers’ crops into growing
Please tell me
I am not
Kaleidoscopic eyes across which
glide dissolved specks of proteins,
lilac & laughing. My boyfriend
can only reassure me Continue reading “Two Poems | by Emily Paige Wilson”
A guy in a Miata is always middle aged. He wears a hat to hide his balding head, the back of his hair grows long so it curls out from under the cap, giving the appearance that there is more hair under there. A bitch in a Camaro lets her mane fly through the t-top. Sunglasses hide her insecurities. A dude in a Miata wants to be sexy and a bitch in a Camaro wants to be tough.
What about the mom in the Odyssey minivan? Her husband abandoned her and the kids, so of course she gets the transport. A dick in a BMW likes to drive fast through women and stoplights. A dick in a BMW fits quite nicely in the Odyssey as needed. Continue reading “One Micro, One Poem | by Kelly Glover”
Reasons for buying the house
The house you want is probably haunted.
The house you want costs a million dollars and probably haunted.
The house you want has seven fireplaces, all original.
The house you want has seven crumbling flues.
The house suffered salt, erosion, and flooding.
The house was gutted and built up again.
The house is not emptied of spirit, not a new construction.
The house has aging bones. Continue reading “Three Poems | by Katharine Diehl”
It’s funny how they always blame it on
the girl. Cherchez la femme now slut shame. Like
itty bitty me could bring down the sons
of industry and prep school breeding. Strike
some blow against the aristocracy
still armed with money, power, even God
when I don’t even have a solid plan
or decent reputation. Use my body
and blame me for your weakness. It can’t be
you. It cannot be that I was something
you so wanted you gave up all to see
me crawl across your kitchen nude and lean
like some malnourished kitty cat while you
hold all the milk and savor every mew. Continue reading “Two Poems | by Kristin Garth”