Poetry

Spring 2012 Issue

Flea (12)

There is nothing you can do about that, partly because you are a flea, but mostly because you are just one flea—waiting to be squashed.

Unbraiding

After seventeen summers of bonfires and flashlights, I hold our picture in my hands and stare into cross eyed admiration: a rosy burst against the grey cottage...

My Looking Glass

Who I have become is someone I do not recognize And although my reflection is faithless and uncompromising I wish for nothing more...

Violin

In the breakable blue sky, naked as the worms in the dark, crumbling earth below; They are holding the sky up, or else trying to tear it down and I’m afraid...

Success

With fight ebbing from my body, final silver bubbles slipping through my lips like a whisper, my heart beats a final call to arms.

Teenage Ocean

Gray clouds became shadows of a game we knew well And the world turned over, and gave itself to shadow puppets and rain...