Monday, 22 April 2019

A Poem by Esmé Kaplan-Kinsey


Phone call, and my mother’s face cracks like plaster.
Leans against car door.

Are you sure?

Car door blue, shiny. Hard point of white light on fender from setting sun.

Okay…and what does that mean?

Feet repel ground, ground sticks to feet. I should not be here.

Okay. Thank you.

Car is blue, and I should fold my body behind the wheel stick floating feet to gas pedal hurtle toward sunset, I should drive to the end of the world before
my mother can tell me the ending
That has cracked
Her face
In two.

Esmé Kaplan-Kinsey is a 17 year old writer from Petaluma, California. She is the founder of her school's creative writing club and editor of the school literary magazine. She was also a finalist at the Youth Speaks Grand Slam Final for Slam Poetry in San Francisco. Her work has been published in Teen Ink. When not writing, Esmé enjoys acting and making music.

Thursday, 18 April 2019

A Poem by Meghan Sterling


To sleep in a bed alone after five
Years of marriage is a practice in
Restraint. Pillows like the spines of leaves still
clinging to the branch, the sway of wind that
tries to knock them loose, or more like doesn’t
try at all, just moves and things blow apart.
I’m trying not to love the room too much,
The lamplight, mattress leaning to the right
the blankets wrapped around my selfish legs,
The smell of soap and mint and spacious thoughts
And no cry from my daughter’s crib to jar
Me from my dreams. My thoughts taste of lemon
Blossoms, and I see the way that sleep
Comes best to outliers: the fallen branch, the stone.

Monday, 15 April 2019

A Poem by Stephanie Bradbury


In the terminal quiet
of a hospital waiting room,
a small family of strangers, 
displaced by unfamiliar furniture, 
take nothing home with them
except the bruises of collision.

Stephanie Bradbury lives in north Georgia and works as an emergency room nurse. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous literary magazines and journals, including Inkin Thirds, The Rusty Nail, Mad Swirl, and Front Porch Review. 

Thursday, 11 April 2019

A Poem by Lynda Turbet


Listen, first:

hear our cackling call,
our honking trombones 
rally the laggards
into formation.

Our wings echo wind-filled sails'
rhythm of flapping canvas;
we are a ship's prow
parting the sky.

We land flat-footed;
a thousand beaks
ravage beet-fields
in autumn cleansing.

Our eyes are ice-rimmed stones;
the tang of salt and pine
clings to our feathers.
Here is our south.

Watch our clumsy rise 
wheel to a pink horizon,
smudged shapes sketched
in charcoal dusk.