By D.F. Parizeau
between hurricanes, expired passports
and paper planes, I’ve spent too
many days contemplating
to those with wings.
The pain of leaving
crimson in my chest.
Must I fall before first flight?
Skin raw from each defeat:
By Cap’n 575
Only to survive
a nanosecond longer
mountain battles sea.
Someday (not today)
We all become the mountain
We are all the sea
Don’t exhibit much life.
Caught in a moment between.
Captured and captivated,
In intricacies good and bad.
Lush green, jammed
If you drop it cold, it will break.
looking at this frozen leaf
ask for a similar fate.
Icy, cold has no time for warm emotion
Numb is the way to go.
Feeling broken inside, go ahead and break me.
I too am caught in a moment between,
almost feeling hopeful and inevitable dread.
It seems, the girl with blisters is better dead.
By Siobhan Atkins
Who knows the weight of a collapsing star
I only know it has crushed me
After holding that space alone for so long
My arms have given way and folded
Against this brittle cold
Where even the promise of supernova
By Deb Whittam
To the counter she marched
resolute, chin held high as
she looked the shopkeeper
directly in the eye.
That painting, there, the one
above the door, I’ll give
you twenty dollars,
not a penny more.
Silence met her words
but with a nod he agreed
and painting in her hand, she smirked,
there had been no need to plead.
At home she unwrapped
her highly sought after prize
only to discover on the frame
a notation that made shock arise.
twenty she had paid,
twenty she had offered,
but the tag clearly stated
clearance – just one dollar.
Under an organic coverlet
tangled roots channel through clay.
Each threadlike finger, a plunge
into dark, moist, fecund paradise.
The shape is defined, turned, hoed.
A spade and a savage push cuts through.
The oily scrape of metal on soil
churns up segmented, sinuous miners
the color of waggling tongues.
And leggy parasites, their sultry wind
through fathomage interrupted.
The bed, sedulously furrowed and sown
by a calloused and grime-lined hand
Silence, as unseen feasts, a million quickenings
and a thousand microscopic fornications explode within.
A weathered vine
through an accident of ice
in the wintry wind.