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How Far Back This Goes
my sadness was once tangled around my name.
the doctors had to touch the cold rain of their hands
against my fevered skull to know it was real
Call of Nature (Ode to Piss)
Evil satellites promenade across the milky way.
I half-expected no more galaxies
after that bad mammogram; pale whorls
December-December Romance
like the thick exhaust
from trucks that choose to idle long
beyond the time it takes
to melt the windshield wipers’ grip
Slow Lesson
Stitches of rain unpierce
my lips. There is no pain.
What the breath slips loose
I regain.
â—‰ Bulletin Board
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Stay tuned for our upcoming issue, out this December.