by CAROLYN BANKS
Untitled by Rowena Waack | Flickr
He reads my poem. “But you’re not married,” he says. Right. Not only is there a husband in the penultimate line, but a son, even earlier. “I guess it’s good,” he says, trying to mend things, erase his memory of the look that swept across my face.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You don’t have to like it.” I rub my bare foot against his to tell him it really is okay, “I’m used to it, really.”
“I’ve never met a poet before,” he says. “And I sure as hell never slept with one.” We both laugh, his laugh real, I think.
“We’re a dying breed.”
“Not just yet,” he says, flopping atop me.
by BOB SHAR
by ALYA DEMINA
by LEAH MUELLER
by CHRIS DIGIORGIO
by DAN TREMAGLIO
She wanted to write a song.
She did not want to write a song.
She loved music and how it made her
feel and was born to write and play it.
She might have been tone deaf.
She never felt more alive than when
performing in front of people.
She was often terrified and never far
She did not own an alarm clock because
she could open her eyes at any exact
minute and more often passed the entire
night pacing the villa of her imagination
in the nude and moonlight.
by JOE BONGIORNO
by GLENN A. BRUCE
by L. MACK
by SARAH BARKER
by WARREN J. COX
by PAUL SMITH
by KYLE HEMMINGS
by SAUL LEMEROND
by CATHERINE MOORE
by CHAD W. LUTZ
by DL SHIREY
By BEN SLOTKY
Ghost Sick Jarvis
Eric Siegelstein / Flapperhouse
Cleaners / Christian Heilmann / Flickr
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