The Vacant Lot

close to home
and ringed by pale crack
ed pavement
is
covered
in
trash.
Mangy brown rats gnaw
on the bodies of their
young,
sharpen their teeth
on a scorched antique chair,

and scurry through refuse—
arcades of
rusted      car          parts
and flat                  tires.

Dingy white birds
build nests
of yellow smeared newspapers
in the                           safety
of            ancient
elm tree
branches,

then
fly
down
to feast
on moldy hot dogs
and pizza
soaked in stagnant puddles.
The birds fly back screeching,
scattering
white
droppings
on the untamed grass that smothers bleached asphalt teeth—

But you know,
there’s something about
the sun-kissed
sparkle
of,
broke
n                 liquor
bot
tles           and           make
shift crack pipes
that makes me want
to sway
with the zealous
undulations
of windswept
overgrowth.

By Mark Morgan Jr.

Biography:

Mark Morgan Jr. writes poetry for An Autumn Road, his poetry blog located at http://anautumnroad.tumblr.com. One of his previous works, “Moving Man”, was featured in the May 2015 issue of The Rising Phoenix Review. A native of Detroit, he is currently living in Saint Clair Shores and celebrating his bachelor’s degree in secondary education.

IN WHICH

In which I am standing in front of the window
and you’re rubbing warmth back into
my hands; somewhere in my room there’s
a list of all the people I wanted to hurt but
it’s easier to catch raindrops in my mouth
and I know I’m getting off topic here but it’s
so difficult to focus & I think I’m a little lost;
In which I’m waiting for a girl with
acne scarred skin and weary eyes like maybe
forgetting is the same as forgiving –
like maybe this time I’ll be enough,
so she’ll be enough ; In which I
cried, a photo of your face cupped
between her hands like ellipses;
In which I asked why you’re at the airport,
sipping tea at an empty table, while I search a
crowded terminal. In which I go home alone
because you never showed up (we think you were
in that plane that was lost overseas).
In which I reacquaint myself with loneliness,
glass half full of memories, (I’d like to forget…
please).

By Rachana Hegde

Biography:

Rachana Hegde is a sixteen year old part-time poet from India who collects words & other oddities. You can usually find her reading on her kindle or daydreaming about characters from abandoned writing projects. Her poetry has been published by or is forthcoming in: Germ Magazine, Textploit, The Fem and Vagabond City. Read more of her work at www.ink-smudgedfingers.tumblr.com.

Broca’s area (a case study)

We are in the hospital, and

i.
the diagonal cut of moonlight highlights the clinical context
of our everyday catastrophe. chrome and rounded corners, a fence,
an extra blanket. the aesthetics of safety smell like rubber.

ii.
i listen to the gasps, the gurgles, the tongue swallowing itself
in an attempt to be loved. my boyfriend once dreamt up a serenade.
now everything he says is a column of sound, ruptured at the edges.

iii.
“a tragedy,” the doctor explains, and “cerebral damage.” clean-cut
words to be tucked away in a file. “oops” is another word i like.
this is what i imagine the vein must have said when it slipped open.

iv.
my boyfriend is learning how to use his hands now his speech
sounds like strangling. we play a game of reversed roles: his gaze
one of complete comprehension, mine wild and wicked, asking why.

v.
look, this happens. you know. you sign risk clauses. but it feels
unfair to say ‘surgeons are only human’ when they are capable
of reducing someone to much less than that.

By Heleen De Boever

Biography:

Heleen De Boever is the co-founder of werkloos mag. With an MSc in Theatre & Performance Studies, her creative and academic work infuse each other as themes of physicality, corporeal identity and sensory confusion continue to inspire her writing. She hopes to grow, always, upwards.

Eve 

tell me, eve,
how it felt to make scripture
out of your own name.
how adam wept
as you screamed
‘MY BODY IS NOT YOUR ALTAR.
MY LIPS DO NOT HOLD YOUR CONFESSION.’

tell me, eve,
how you looked the snake in the eyes
and took a hold of that apple.
you, rotting from the inside,
so tired of being soft
sick of your broken bible spine.
you, hungry to be more than the image
of man
hungry for more than a pair of lungs
filled with holy water.

tell me, eve,
how you held
two hearts in your hands.
how you looked at adam
and an apple
how you chose to wash your hands
of God and to drip gold instead.

tell me, eve
tell me that the universe
tasted like freedom.

By Kelsey Krempasky

Biography:

Kelsey Krempasky is a 22 year old writer currently attending the University of Manitoba in Winnipeg, Canada. In her spare time, she can be found buying more notebooks that she doesn’t need.

TRANS IS NOT YOUR CONVENIENT MYSTERY

breaking down bodies and body’s parts
into amalgams you can’t wait to understand

you are building an image of me my mouth defies
black-bone gut against the whitened intrusion of
dictionary definitions and hospital waiting rooms

i am waiting for someone to ask me
not what i am
but who i will be.

trust that i am an ancient power.
rocking the earth in circles
i am the moon in flux
shedding my skin for leather jackets and snakeskin shoes

i am the chalkboard
carving selfhood
into your thick schoolboy skull

i am lights fluorescent and flickering
waxing and waning into horrible flame

i am the wind singing sailors into brokenness
i. am.

beyond this body?
this body is beyond your feeble understanding
of what it means to mean
so let me tell you, ma’am,
that i am nothing you have seen before

i am not defined by petty things like height and hair
judge me by my character, the steel of my brow and the sneer of my hips
know me by the way i say you don’t know me
when you ask what a dirty girl like me is doing out so late.

you cannot break down this body
and serve it up like so many plates
because i am not pieces and i am not a whole
but i am holy holy holy goddammit
i don’t need your god to speak for me
this flesh knows its maker
and it’s me.

(you cannot break down this body.
you cannot break the unbreakable.)

By Hafsa Musa