Two Poems by Dan Lasher

April 13, 2011 § 1 Comment

Absinthe by Dan Lasher

In a lust of licorice—
suddenly my sinus
cavity is open, and I can breathe,
but only suddenly.
Then I need more.
I don’t need water or sugar—

because the image that you
have painted inside my skull,
on the bone of it—
on the bone of it—can not
be removed by 80 proof whisky,
no for that I need, turpentine.

Roses by Dan Lasher

Dead dog sister melancholy wise up. Winter set in cool breeze through my hair against my skin. Your way is not enough and summer time charm has no time to care. Forgetting the scenes on your eye lids and laughing at the madness on the screen, shrill, calm, cool, disdain. The captain is green and the crew is mutiny. The night time fearless, while mourning lapping against a hallowed haul. Blood is drawn, and the young man dead in the bath, overdosed, his girl still out there somewhere.

Robins cry, sparrows sing, so close to land, I think, I can taste it, but I can’t see it. Nereid, sweet nymph, mother of helpful seas, help me.

We got in before sunrise, the mountain was burning and Jamie is dead.
Her tragic suicide has left her homeless, tears on her pillow, still it burns. Remembered only as a child, in her father’s eyes. In her own eyes, her young ones, a woman.

I wish you could come home, your bed is still made and your place at the table set, lavender lining the flower bed outside your window, roses on your bower, and lace on your bed sheets, this time I would tell you.

The Ram’s Head by Maryanne Sanders

April 13, 2011 § Leave a comment

The Ram’s Head

by Maryanne Sanders

I am angry
angry that this all feels rehashed
recycled, resold,
stale.
Give me something
I can really sweat to.
Play unplugged, half drunk,
bring back the hothouse love
of rock,
Of us,
of what it didn’t mean.
We are angry
Because we want you naked
and all we get is your bare wrists.
Stop your bleeding hearts
your burning suns
give me the gritty details
of how you shake before a show
clam up and choke on your tongue
second guess yourself
then swallow it back like a shot.

I want to know why
you hold your dick at night,
pull your hair and cry,
gasping for air
like you just washed up on shore,
spit naked out of salty sea
like it was your mother’s womb.

Lost Light by AJ Hayes

April 1, 2011 § 7 Comments

Lost Light

by AJ Hayes

Last time I saw you we were walking
down a low-tide beach just north of
Fort-De-France in Martinique. The land
crabs making their way up the sand
under sea grass parasols. We were
practicing the proper uses and
pro/nun/ci/a/tions of C’est Va.

A daylight moon skipping in and out
of wispy clouds. Black gulls dipping wing tips in the
surf line like ink pens. Your breasts were sunless triangles
twinning the coarse glisten of your  pubic thatch.
Your hips filled my hands like a chalice.
You tasted thick as salted honey.
Caribe black faces watched us from the road above.

I heard later that you didn’t come back
one day. Just kept going deeper.
Were the stars as bright as the sun that day?
Was it raining down light all around you?
Sometimes I hear your laughter
riding the penny whistle wind.

The Dinner Table by Sydney Brown

April 1, 2011 § 2 Comments

The Dinner Table

by Sydney Brown

“The truth is seldom welcome,
especially at dinner…”
—Margaret Atwood

Mother insisted
we were all there
on Sundays,
like the Kennedys,
like an iron lung,
like the hydrogen bomb.
Father came for the food:
plump little lamb chops,
Shit on a Shingle,
tuna casserole fortified
with crinkled Lay’s.
Sister, the beauty queen,
moved her meat
about the bone china
like a debutante—her eyes
like smooth stones,
like a surgeon’s knife.
Brother, a has-been at 15,
always had to put on a shirt,
like a tie,
like a hardhat,
like a diaper
for the electric chair.
And on Porterhouse night, I waited
for their fat and marrow,
like a good dog,
like a good girl,
like a good landmine.

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