A Poem to Multiple Men–Poems by Caitlin Scarano

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by Caitlin Scarano

A Poem to Multiple Men

Who made and mended my wrists
of wire. Copper conductors of heat
and electricity. Think of the synaptic
dance, jaw loose daze as you bend
me over and peer inside. I keep you
around to witness the holes in me
I can never see. In the morning we part
wordless, mired mouths, semen on my chest,
the sun rapping against my window
like a chipper neighbor in need of sugar.
I learned the price of loving
a place more than a person: that’s how
I lost one. Were we ever happy? I wrote
and then stomped through each creekbed
between our bodies with kneehigh
galoshes. Most days I take a girl
for a mask. I hide my teeth behind
my hair and pretend to love snow. Give me
the boy with the belly of an ox, give me
one like a child’s tower of blocks
that I can knock down and rebuild
until the game tires of us. I hope you find
someone who loves you. I was never the girl
next door, I was the one cackling beneath
the radiator, bruising herself behind
the eyes. Chasing the moonsure,
the white dog, the man who left me
with a tongue of coal dust.
He’s really no different than the boy
I made into jigsaw and kissed in the rain
until one of us bled.

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Poems by Joy Ladin

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by Joy Ladin

II:6

You don’t get why I beg you
To tie my hands to the bed
And stuff my mouth

With something warm and white
Ripped from the fabric of life
By fingers you tighten around my neck.

You think it has something to do with guilt and pleasure,
Or the origin of tragedy
In the human need

To act out what we suffer,
Or maybe the simple bitchiness
Of forcing you to savor

A capacity for pain
Almost as bottomless as your desire
To hear my cries

As pleasure. Omniscience
Oblivious
To the obvious: as long as I

Am free to flee, I can’t fulfill your fantasy
Of making love
Out of mortal terror.

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Roses Too Bloom–Poems by Emma Erickson

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by Emma Erickson

 

roses too bloom

I hear     babies grow
I hope mine doesn’t

I’d keep  my truth  warm
but  in the shade      dark
maybe purple it reminds
me of coloring when you
wipe your dripping nose
with your wrist and leave
it shining in crooked light
where did  the   clouds  go
here    in between yellows

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Conifer—Prose Poems by Kolby Harvey

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by Kolby Harvey

CONIFER

I am talking about the wind in the trees, the pine shake dappled. Pockets of fog on the road at night after you pull a pheasant off the wall, a plucked duck out the freezer, laid out on the den’s bear rug tackle box. Hit a crow on the nose and the ducks tip under a metal washbasin. The dogs may eat too much if given the chance. Can we agree on this at least. That there’s too much iron in the water. An orange dome over the boiling pot, it’s best to puncture the film with a fork and let the pieces somersault through the dingy liquid.

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