Tick tock, tick tock, 1a.m. strikes, and all I can think of is cheese. Swiss, havarti, gouda, and brie, Fountains and sprinkles, melted and sliced, both creamy and rich, while also, soft and subtle string cheese, never to only bite. 2a.m. strikes, and down the stairs I wander to the coldness of the
i want to see my grandmother bringing me a chocolate milk sippy cup, and i want to smell the cigarette smoke that lingers in the fabric of her couch. i wonder if death will be as gentle as waking up next to the love of my life for the very first time, soaked in golden […]
“‘I have healed this water. Never again will it cause death or make the land unproductive.’ And the water has remained pure to this day, according to the word Elisha had spoken.” 2 Kings 2:21-22 “Water, water, every where, / Nor any drop to drink” -Samuel Taylor Coleridge WATER! walk out
Splice another vein, smear another molecule. What’s a second bead of blood anyway—you’ve already conceded so many little heartbeats. Do I even recognize myself anymore? Write another one of your strangled, love-lorn poems. Yes, yes, there—look at how thirsty your metaphors have become, licki
Within desolate winter and the twisted terrain of intestines, lay your frigid, lonely soul, hopelessly hibernating, waiting for the breath of spring to stir your subdued spirit. You were saved by scalding water, melting a hole in the whole of darkness. The flames licked the internal passage of your
drive down those twisting lanes off exit 72, past the mushroom plant you can smell for miles, through the trees–summer foliage blocking signals–music gone static– and turn where the yellow barn once was. green-roofed history caved in on itself, battered by rain and mud, paint peeling like prun
I stand with my feet spread apart, a canvas steadily propped on the easel. I straighten my back, gazing at the subject in front of me, and as my teacher whispers words of advice, my body feels thrown ten years back, to the place where I first held a brush and dipped it into paint, […]
The leaves have not yet changed. But in a staticky autumn sweater, mug of apple cider in hand, I traipse through campus to a picnic-table porch to work on homework due two days ago. The aftertaste of “I’ll do better” hangs like a bat in my mouth, its tendon talons unyielding against waves of r
after “The Sharpest Axe” by Greg Lookerse The weapon used in the name of peace, forgiveness, cleansing, the good of all. Holy war, righteous cause, they sharpen the blade for battle, belief blindly clutched in their hands, with steel armor as bright as saintly stained glass. Their bread and wine
