Myth By Jacqueline Boucher

Myth

After Tomaz Salamun

My depression  is a cannibal. My depression trims
its neck in silk jacquard, its noose a double Windsor,
paisley dimpled. It crawls from the mouths of caves,

licks its lips, truffle black, & trenches the fat
of the soil, the root. It cultivates its own food. Ladies
who care about that sort of thing palm their chests

& gasp lungfuls of smoke, ask it how it temples
its body just so. My depression smiles, crooked tooth
a tired soldier beside its brothers, and sweeps an arm to the killing

field. What a garden you’ve grown, they say. What a labor of love.
Perhaps they’ll walk the perimeter together, this path
so sacred as a circle of salt, and feel safe in the ditches

its footfall has made. My depression’s voice is a hush
of muslin when it tells them not to worry about falling
behind. In time, it will be at their backs again

to tongue the salt from their earlobes,

to pulp their bellies

with dread.

By Jacqueline Boucher

Biography:

Jacqueline Boucher lives and writes in Northern Michigan. Her work was a finalist for the 2016 Write Bloody manuscript contest, and has appeared in BOOTH, SmokeLong Quarterly, Hobart, and other magazines. She can be found on Twitter @jacqueboucher.

Only Four More Days Left in Our Holiday Sale

Holiday Sale Tree.jpg

There are only four more days to receive a 20% discount on all of our poetry collections in time for the holiday season! All of these collections would be a good gift for the poetry fan in your life. Follow the links below for more information and purchasing details.

Celebrate the poetry fan in your life by adding a new book to their shelf this holiday season! All of our titles are 20% until December 15th!

Survive Like the Water By Lydia Havens eBook and Print Copy

Keystones by Christian Sammartino eBook and Print Copy

Fleur by Darshana Suresh eBook and Print Copy

Jewel By Amy Lauren

Jewel

Her body lies bare—
open; her skin,
white-washed in the milk
of a thousand lovers;
her veins, broken blue
threads, skeins

of immobile stone
hardened in fervor
from the blazing furnace.
others hungered
for her to wish herself
into dust, to forget

her own hunger, meld
into the world’s hands
as the word “girl”
in a man’s mouth;
she was born too late,
with her mouth already open

to swallow the starlight
that hungered for her too,
and she will never forget
the first kiss, twenty years old,
she did not sleep that night,
she watched the stars, the light

and how her heart stretched
upwards, waiting to grow old enough
to offer her soul’s raw diamond
on the altar. mother, don’t
call her sorrow because you
cannot melt her,

call her blessed, a childhood
prophecy fulfilled, chosen
woman fortified by flame
and immortalized in heaven’s
ring on the fingers of the goddess,
a hand-picked jewel.

By Amy Lauren

Biography:

Amy Lauren is an organist in Jackson, MS and recipient of a Pushcart and Best of the Net nomination in 2017. Her chapbooks include Prodigal (Bottlecap Press) and God With Us (Headmistress Press), the latter through the semi-finalist prize in the Charlotte Mew Contest.

Aubades By Leah Kuehn

Aubades

I.

We found the hot summer asphalt under our boots, then our feet,
then our bare knees, bare backs.
He’d wanted waves, but we found a parking lot instead,
streetlamps studding such emptiness.         We drank gin from its glass bottle,
laughter pushing us from wheel-well to paved earth.

Heat, absent the night before, finds its way through the van where light cannot.
Not the hiss of roads, not birds, not sun: a woman’s laughter, a slamming car door.
And then wakefulness.

II.

In my bed, an unfamiliar body
demands familiarity: planed bone, more plateau
than hill or valley, unrelenting in its intraversible silence.
To move against it is suddenly provocative, despite the sweat,
despite the turn-towards of sour breath.         I pull away,
maleness affronting, illuminated, the persistence of bone
and muscle in place of softness.

III.

There is blood on her mattress, smoldering
in the light from the window, a new continent
smearing across the backs of our thighs.
Yours? she asks.            I shake my head,
my mouth another shy opening.    She pushes the blankets
from the bed with her feet, electric body a whisper
as she, searching, dips her

By Leah Kuehn

Biography:

Leah Kuehn is a graduate of Denver School of the Arts and University of Maine at Farmington. They interned with the Beloit Poetry Journal for two years, are a steering committee member of the Belfast Poetry Festival, and are a co-creator and co-editor of The Lark, an online literature and arts magazine. Their work is forthcoming in GFT Presents: One in Four and has been commissioned by the Maine Humanities Council. They live in Westbrook, Maine.

I Believe Him About the Deer By Ana Maria Guay 

I Believe Him About the Deer

Uncle says he couldn’t ever bring himself to kill
a deer—he’s showing us his knives—

I wonder just how God decides to build
the ozone zap of trust between a man’s eyes

and a deer’s, its brown eyes, brown body
before it spreads across the pavement

like a child’s head on a pillowcase
sighing for mother in the thick blue of dusk

Everything in this house is blue—
the grill meat the popsicles the gentle

silence inside the gun barrel upstairs all blue
I press my brown hands to chairs and come away

streaked teal like an arm’s unsunned casing,
showing all the veins I meant to forget

A good man once got me up against a wall
to show the family how he scares bad guys

I terrify them I make them piss themselves
the whole room’s laughter bloomed livid blue

Joyous now at the dream of survival, his own,
he batters his nightstick down the tiles

(They shot a deaf Latino in Oklahoma this year
for banging a pipe on the ground, just so)

and my spine becomes cobblestones,
becomes an ancestry of spines

a field of deer scattering under the skin

By Ana Maria Guay 

Biography:

Ana Maria Guay is a writer and graduate student in Classics, born in Asunción, Paraguay and raised in Brooklyn, New York. Her writing and translations have appeared or are forthcoming in Lunch Ticket, Catapult, The Toast, Asymptote, and Shot Glass Journal, among others. A graduate of the University of Michigan and the University of Cambridge, she currently lives in Los Angeles.

Prolonged Medication By Tanya Singh

Prolonged Medication

i wish my father could see the left of my face, burning
when my mother asked me to offer my neck as a sacrifice,
our mother tells me, that’s how you hold your head high.
i open my hands and lay them above fire,
& pray that my hands are a hearth before they’re blue.
fire gives life to legends and dead. & i can almost hear
my cheeks speak to me in tongue of three birds.
the first bird only died when i had spoken of a dark room,
these windows made of dust and grandma.
the only way out is through sounds that run through
ashes, soft pattering, golden- rising and musk,
over this house that casts a shabby room built inside
elegies of our grandchildren. must guns be obituaries.
that is when i want to hold your hand & overflow
with translations for a children’s story we’ll never get
to read. i tell you & father, i love this shadow that dances in
ocean and opens its mouth in my mouth for a bird to leave.
i whisk hands in blue, above my head sacrificed,
as if baking a cake in thin air, for a bird we both chew,
and this is my arm & this is my head, an extension of sorts.
i know this because when i held my head last night,
the horse told me how it was at the barn, but i was not
listening. i fear i came down the nest without wings, hastened,
and my spine is too bent to understand, when my
neck almost gave away. someday, i’ll learn to love
myself, till then i’ll wait. i know the ocean between my
legs is singing my childhood wrapped inside an earthen
ink pot.


By Tanya Singh

Biography:

Tanya Singh is a poet from Chandigarh, India. Their work has appeared in Gone Lawn, Eunoia Review, Polyphony H.S, and elsewhere, and has been recognized by Times of India and The Great Indian Literary Festival, among other places. They are the founder & editor-in-chief of The Cerurove. They think they are nine cups of magic magpies who live inside a doe-eyed teapot with a hole, and dream, the size of a universe.

Miracles By Eric Allen Yankee

Miracles

With nature
Not against it
Peace
Bareness + simplicity
This heathen country
Remains our friend
Until we all hail Caesar
Walmart sperm bank
Whirlpool hurricane hospital
Dunkin Drugs and Donuts
Kentucky fried chick Fil a Church
And our hands are raised up
Don’t shoot me, Mr. Grey
Go back to your secretary
And tell her you love her
Or give all your money away
But don’t shoot us, Mr. Grey
Let’s have more miracles
That blow sweet Jesus in the rain
Not against the blood stained wind
The people will leave their alleys
Behind leave the alleys behind
Dump their shopping carts
In fields of namaste
And create miracles
That build cooperation
Without corporation

By Eric Allen Yankee

Biography:

Eric Allen Yankee is a member of the Revolutionary Poets Brigade of Chicago. His work appears in The People’s Tribune, Calamus Journal, Five 2 One Magazine, RISE (2017 Vagabond Books), Overthrowing Capitalism Volume 2 & 3, The Good Men Project, and others. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He is the author of RIOT (2017 Finishing Line Press), American Bullet (2017 Atomic Theory), and Bees Against the War (2017 Locofo Chapbooks).