by Molly Gaudry
A carafe, that is a blind glass. —Gertrude Stein
In a different version it was not a pea but a cocoa bean
you came to us in the night
soaked in cold
trembling with fatigue
Mother brought you inside where the last of our candles were burning
prepared for you a bed of many mattresses
in the morning she asked how you had slept
I was the one who did the beds
knew you had not slept on those mattresses
had slept on the floor
I had never seen a being so beautiful as you
who in passing my cocoa-bean test brought me great inspiration
the dresses I fashioned from that point forward where winged creations made from the excesses of water on hand
each drop sewn one on top of the next so that the texture was rippling as a pond beneath the moon….
Molly Gaudry is the author of the verse novel, We Take Me Apart (Mud Luscious Press, 2009), and the editor of Tell: An Anthology of Expository Narrative (Flatmancrooked, 2010). She curates Walking Man Gallery, edits Willows Wept Press and Willows Wept Review, is a co-founding editor of Twelve Stories, and is an associate editor for Keyhole Magazine. She writes occasional book reviews for East&West Magazine, and she’s currently tweeting a chapter of her new verse novel, FLORA THE WHORE, every few days on Twitter.
by Colin James
Our neighbors sun themselves indiscriminately.
See the after affects,
the linear contortions as chaise lounges buckle.
Oars replace legs,
to stand with the rows of canes
near the pool-house study.
We can sit quietly
our buttocks clutching the seats width,
until it’s time to dine
and I hold you like a drink.
Colin James lives in Massachusetts but used to live in England. He works in Energy Conservation. He has poems forthcoming in Oysters And Chocolate
, Calliope Nerve
and The Tower Journal
His eyes didn’t smile. Thin lips and ungenerous, intermittent staying in the house and in it. And in it he took off and went places, no one knows. She. Wide hips, all the better to give birth, my dear. She wanted that baby more than anything. Still born with him standing arms at sides, helpless to fix. Only the old trailer truck. Go see Uncle Herman, ease the grief and grow up some. No more lies. He, handsome sputtering liar, new jacket, new name, new lady. Back at the ranch she waited, grief burning a hole in his heart. Made him want to be bad. Stick a knife in the wound. His wound.
p style=”text-align: justify;”>Dancer/choreographer turned abstract painter/writer, Neila Mezynski has fiction and poetry published on Kill Author, Snow Monkey, Word Riot, Dogzplot, Mud Luscious, Scrambler, Rumble among several others.