Poetry

Mama Gonna Fight

by on Mar 3, 2015 in Poetry | 2 comments

tell your mama, as she kneads her dough with floured hands, how we fairies glint in evening light, how we tell you tales of a world beyond the veil of stomachs that never hunger, lips that never wait to be kissed. tell her how a prince awaits you yes, even you, daughter of a house slave your skin fair as copper, but never fair enough to be free tell her we fairies say you’re pretty, that we like pretty things. your mama, you know she’ll argue that them Irish brought over more trouble than hunger, these fairies worst of all. any folk crossing from the other side cause mischief whether they come from Africa or Mississippi. she’ll say God should have mercy on your soul....

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Hook

by on Mar 3, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

Crouching by the stream It whispers the names of drowned children A list as long as the stream itself The names are lures Their hair swirls over their faces, their pink mouths open The drowned are perfect swimmers It uncorks a bottle The children climb in, pressing their small fingers Against the glass I scream and scream The bottle shatters and out they spill, limbs tangled Its canines flash Katie was five years old The real estate agent smiled, telling us the house Would be perfect for children Katie liked to explore The day we moved in she found a robin’s egg and announced Blue was her new favorite color At sunset I return Clutching the pair of baby blue pajamas She...

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The Changeling Answer

by on Mar 3, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

Stir up chains in a big pot. Stick it on the stovetop at high heat. Pepper in some silver dust and witch-hazel. When the metal half glows And your forearms burn from stirring Dump it all into a sack with the thing. Let the hot metal slither in like a snake Down onto the limbs of your not-daughter Your used-to-be son. You can’t get back what it’s taken, You can’t even kill it. Not really. But that’s not the point. You can remind them, Those little men of dusk and leaf litter, That we don’t always come unhinged in our grief That there is anger in us more strong and biting Than the raw wet thrashings of tooth and claw. Jarod K. Anderson is a fan of comic books, tattoos,...

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barefoot sprites beware

by on Mar 3, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

barefoot sprites beware underneath bright autumn leaves starving leeches wait The poet, author, and gentleman songster, Steven Wittenberg Gordon, MD, is the editor of Songs of Eretz E-zine & Poetry Review. He resides in Kansas with his wife, children, and a poorly trained Airedale terrier. He maintains a part-time medical practice. Visit him at...

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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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