Month: September 2007

Taking It Off At Night by George Bishop

Taking It Off At Night by George Bishop

Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007 So, the older I become the more I’m mistaken for what’s left near the pillow. My watch lays face down on the nightstand looking more like an empty oar lock. My wallet stays an arm length away ready to pull […]

exotica by Kristy Bowen

exotica by Kristy Bowen

Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007 The hooved girl won’t hardly leave the tent. Won’t let the gawkers near enough to touch the glossy tresses, chestnut as a mare. Now, it’s all washtubs and stolen pocket watches, the poison boutonnière. She’d send pigeons if she had […]

the body artist by Kristy Bowen

the body artist by Kristy Bowen

Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007

In spite of the dragon climbing
the arc of her back, she is small boned

soft bodied. Made for hatpins and pleats.
Named after a river, named after a river.

The crows lining her middle bleeding
into one another, lining the window sill

as she sleeps. In Mexico, there’s a woman
shaped into a violin. Another into a boat.

Her bones cradling sadness like cargo.
All of them cultivated, the bad parts

cut out like corn. She’s still skittish
in the kitchen, spilling milk

down her blouse and pressing
the heads of matches against her thighs.

Still spangled and waiting, a viper
unfolding at her wrist.

the torturer’s apprentice by Kristy Bowen

the torturer’s apprentice by Kristy Bowen

Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007 In the lights, the blade in his hand resembles a key. Resembles a cure. I hide it beneath my dress when he sleeps, place it against my thigh, where the alloy makes my mouth hurt, makes the horses shake in […]

Lure by Sarah Brook

Lure by Sarah Brook

Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007 In the kitchen, my mom is boiling maize. Water’s motion upward, away from the cadmium glow, running until it spills over. The silver glint from metal on the stove, its flame contained in steel. I remember the weekend at Horsehead […]

Perennials by Sarah Brook

Perennials by Sarah Brook

Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007

Leaves run, scatter like marbles
flung by the wind’s hand. Gambling hearts and aces
roll numbers, tumbling
over green.

Porch light timed to attract swarming springtails
like poppy seeds. Flocking, fully willing
to give themselves up for light.
Bodies pressed against bulb, igniting,
hoping to burn.

the match lit, flickering to ignite, ice dried in packaging, lungs trapping coal, black sand warmed against winter feet, sun’s touch on metal railings, coffee in cracked mugs, straight shots in little glasses, the coming, wax dripping in a vigil, mercury boiling, branding, pricking needles, iron.

In the room above, buttoning the last hole,
shirt collar stiffened. Peering down at skin, hair unstuck,
her mouth tempted to smile
in the forgetting.

Spooning sugar into black coffee, dusty mugs
with painted daisies chipped and fading.
Floor tiles pull, wallpaper peeling back
to old paint crack-shedding.

At breakfast, he parts lips to taste
what she’s made.
Slowly chewing, churning,
turning gaze.
He wants it to burn.

The Catapult by Harmony Button

The Catapult by Harmony Button

Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007 elbow brushes ankle touch we scratched ourselves in the backyard grass behind the knees chewing a rubber & she is taught sun-kissed. We all crouched behind the wood pile and watched: brown rabbit a bb gun and an awkward moment […]

The Mouth’s Man by Harmony Button

The Mouth’s Man by Harmony Button

Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007 Blind, I smell of water. Whistler, check your pockets: switch grass, rushes. Navigate this: floral, herbal, mulch & fountains a fish fat there for the grabbing. Ferns as soft as feathers stain my hands: wash basin an open mouth.

Your Passport by Harmony Button

Your Passport by Harmony Button

Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007

A ladle, a vacuum, an old park bench.
I shop only for luxuries.
All the other things I think you’ll have
so I don’t buy them
just in case

and its either you inside another woman
or inside my ceramic bowls, mixing your
old silverware with mine and forgetting
which one of us owned that pot
before.

I’ll tell you why this scares me:
her face in your hands and all
our children and my drivers’
license and what if I want to go
back to New York, save some
cash, do without your

our two futons? Your passport.
My career. Your concerns regarding
freedom. What the hell.

I would burn the grass for you,
sit silently on the back porch
still and waiting for
you to be not home all night.

Bird Bone Poem by Juliet Cook

Bird Bone Poem by Juliet Cook

Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007 These birds are intermediaries of a vast yet indeterminate terrain. These birds will only eat pumpernickel bread and only if the crumbs are shaped like otoliths. These birds translate flight into fringed lavender wavelengths. These birds live inside certain people’s […]