Poetry

what we eat when

by and on Feb 3, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

…first we find you: dishwater, grayed overnight and thickened with leftover cottage cheese stray hairs, threaded from your brush and rolled into black licorice braids the sweat of your upper lip dewed by sleep milk, soured in the carton a week before the expiration date …the priest has left: the m’s off every third m&m the malt from every milky way one hour off the bedroom clock two seconds from your reflection the bathroom light, flicker flicker flicker flicker …we unravel the quaint warding charm scrawled atop your door: the man splayed across your bed his face, his spleen his cauliflowered ears braised in bile his fingers knotted into pretzel twists the...

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Second Mouth

by on Feb 3, 2015 in Poetry | 1 comment

When you talk, another mouth opens, lower, half–way down your throat, with a long tongue and ugly clumps of prehensile, yellow teeth. It licks its lips, savors what’s to come. A cutting comment or two, at first, then belching out jeers and mockery, a gushing stream of vulgar jabber. Don’t you hear it? I can’t hear anything else. What are you saying, anyway? Weather? Lunch? Something about your parents? It shuts up, and your lips keep moving, but I still can’t make out your words. See? it says, See? But I don’t want to see it that way, even as it lures your hand, as though to scratch your throat, into its teeth, to gnaw on some of your softest, most oblivious bones. JOHN...

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Werewolf’s Aubade

by on Feb 3, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

Before I met him I was a wolf. With the sun he rolled me over, his cool hands on my hot gut. He said, Good morning. I still love you. I remember the moonlight like naked silver through my skin, my muscles, glinting off bone, but that’s all. I told him I’m afraid I’ll wake up one day and be my mother. He rolled his eyes. You can’t just change like that. I tried to leave but he held me. I said, I’ll bite you. I’ll tear your collarbones out. He said, No you won’t. I’ll change. I’ll make you hate me. No. You won’t. I’m a wolf. I said. I’m a wolf. I’m a wolf! No. He said. I will tell you what you are. LESLIE J. ANDERSON specializes in urban fantasy, science fiction, and...

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Poe Twist: The Tell-Tale Heart, by Edgar Allen Poe

by on Jan 6, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

120 WORDS We were too old to play hide & seek, so we added a handicap and did it in the dark. The game turned grim as you counted out loud— I trod softly like the newly blind, groping around for nooks to disappear in. Your bodiless voice could have been anyone’s— lover, intruder or specter. I crouched first under the sink then the coffee table, clung onto the beams of the mezzanine and hung there, willing my heartbeat to stop as I waited for a hand to descend. You moved in blackness, your senses open to the unperceived shadow, your eyes closed to better feel my body throbbing within the room, your spread–out hands, like a madman’s, stealthily crept toward my throat....

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Before My Father Vanished

by on Jan 6, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

90 WORDS in the Blacksun Nebulas he gave me a string of mooncrystals in cool ambers and the rogue purple–pinks of lost stars I wore them to bed and in the shower for twenty lunar years and to work in the rocket yards where they failed to warm amid bittersmoke and cinder even elements of the cold beyond under the jet and glare and noise one night they broke— scattered light across the gravel landing field I found only a handful ten unthawed cubes ten unleashed winter suns my father’s stardust remains Wendy Rathbone’s latest novel is Letters to an Android. She is also the author of the sf novel Pale Zenith, and more, from eyescrypublications.com. A collection of her short...

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Doors

by on Jan 6, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

110 WORDS The trees are alive with possums, mice, rats. I’m sure of it. Out on their night hunt, you tell me. I shiver. You are still, at ease. Doors, passages, you say, they’re everywhere. Where are we, I ask. The darkness answers in your voice, Are you sure we are? I am quiet, used to your way of explaining things. Are you sure this isn’t death and life is what happens after? I’m not sure. Next to you, I’m never sure of anything. We say good–bye, your eyes human again, not the oak–walled tunnels I’ve traveled all evening. Doors, I think. Remember, you say, and I nod, but I’ve already forgotten. Alina Rios spent the first part of her life in St. Petersburg, Russia, and...

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