
The
magazine you've been hoping to find welcomes you to:
Crawling
By Bobby Parker
Lately I’ve spent too much time
thinking about not thinking –
the emptiness
of a doll’s eye.
Loneliness turned inside out
like a black jacket.
I look at the grass.
Long, dark, wet, graveyard grass.
I remind myself
to come back one day
and read the headstones.
I stamp in muddy puddles,
brown specks land on my lip –
I can’t explain but I think
you make me
walk through here
to meet you because I’m so afraid.
Passing headlights
undress you
on your corner opposite the angels.
What
my death will mean to me and my wife
By Reid Bush
Partly
it will mean that
I won’t get up at night
and dig through the frig
and cupboard till I find
cheese and crackers—and
maybe pickles—and sit
down at a scarred oak table
to chew and stare at Night
Filling A Kitchen
Window—
which, in turn, will mean that
my wife won’t get up, won’t
slip her robe
on over her gown,
won’t enter the kitchen pulling
tighter its belt, won’t
sit down,
won’t ask—as she always does—
if maybe I wouldn’t also like
some milk.
Out
of sync
By Ayelet
McKenzie
She
gives him vodka kisses
he drinks in her geranium mouth,
wide and slack
like an overstretched elastic band.
Together they turn the day upside down,
feeding each other trifle from teaspoons
in the small hours,
dancing the
tango neck to neck
laughing at the moon.
Dummy
By Claire Quigley
I
want a voodoo doll
of me: a twin in hessian.
I want her here, not
in an attic somewhere,
mirroring the dead. I want her
sent to me, lines blurring
in a chrysalis.
I want to watch
her eight-part body twist
and click into my shape.
I want to run the pins in,
flinching in her silence.
I want to hold her,
hip to hip, and feel
my traitor’s arms
around her.
___________
Many
more poems for you to read in our 100th issue celebratory edition...
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TN17 2ZR UK
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