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poetry

THREE POEMS

Poetry

June 2021

Joshua Blackman

Poetry

June 2021

  MODES OF BEING   A new hobby of mine is repeating a word until it strays from its centre of meaning, so risibly            alive...

Poetry

May 2021

THREE POEMS

Yongyu Chen

Poetry

May 2021

  ARTICULATION OF SOLACE FOR W   We are mothering ourselves. We are articulating solace for each other. We...

Poetry

Issue No. 23

FROM OUR ARCHIVE: THREE POEMS

A K Blakemore

Poetry

Issue No. 23

MAY   you slid into my life as though a witch’s smock — a sun poem.   fat bee...

Poetry

February 2021

THREE POEMS

Sarah Gridley

Poetry

February 2021

  ADDRESSEE   I mind less that you go far away in time. Once I had to harden myself...

minutes were different in ward-time continuous difluoromethane and stale skin and sterilising fluid from the ventilation units replaced sundials the electric pulmonary system laughed at dressing-gown- outpatients waiting for cups of blood and honey and metastasised papyrus from a heart ventricle dazed and limp 400 feet above the aerials on the hospital roof they washed and talked to the body before draining and re-filling with formaldehyde and other solvents and then ushered into a hermetically sealed coffin or ziploc sandwich bag I climbed past the 17th hospital floor with my mother the day after a woman in a brocaded suit got down on two knees and whispered about our seven great matriarchs from a Romani family a knock on the door of each sister when another one died we both listened to the flux of compressed air up the lift shaft and the breath caught best by the radiation suite on floor 20 and level LG before the morgue the stairs changed from linoleum to concrete and I tripped over stacked wheelchairs and filing trolleys head pressed against the mirror in the lift for an overdue inheritance of glass divination or splayed-hand- palmistry I was born in the Jessop Wing and watched it being demolished while I passed on the school bus ten years later they struggled to take blood and smiled at never making it to heroin with that circulatory system while my grandmother’s cyanotype roots hummed with warfarin sometimes I used the toilet by the hospital chapel after leaving school and walked corridor to corridor not another doctor for miles between here and 1979 time dilated between IV lines and ventilator drops and bedside alarms and wind pulled through structural cavities we did not know what the family name had been before the air on the roof became anti-septic

Poetry

February 2021

Hospital

Maria Giles-Holland

Poetry

February 2021

minutes were different in ward-time. continuous difluoromethane and stale skin and sterilising fluid from the ventilation units replaced sundials....

  when walt whitman spokea multitudes he meant     did he not     that within each ovus an obsequious beer soaked indie boy broods about steppin in front of a fuckin bus         t burrow down intae the freckled id     where coffee torns t treacle on the hotplate and borst fegs are embedded in the carpet     what i really mean is that ad hate to be that kyid again          rollin along crash barriers at some gig in the union while the country is sold by the furlong     drinkin what i made at my forst communion on a nightly basis     then starvin maself of breakfast & lunch & good mental health
Abstract

Poetry

February 2021

James Conor Patterson

Poetry

February 2021

Prism

Kandace Siobhan Walker

Poetry

February 2021

  Board trustees tapped heirloom spoons against the graduates’ wet green skulls to get at the yolk. Academics, in...

  Mall parking lot becomes dodgeball court, 2 vs 20 Opposition’s fitted sheet fingers cover king-size stones Boys’ backs clamp against the storefront window Their propeller limbs swatting, foreheads pouring blood and sweat like broken soda dispensers Spectators flaunt their yellow-corn teeth, as they sing Boom Bye Bye; supporters whispering invocations and protective medleys Not once did the boys cry out for God Police wait for the whiff of oak coffins before they whisk the boys away in their Jeep; and the names of all the girls I crush on at school clank like crockery, 11-year-old-me vows to avoid bursting lips and wailing skin
The Purge

Poetry

February 2021

Courtney Conrad


 

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