r

summer bathtub

bvrlymrsh

cat posts pictures of dead birds
once a day, maybe twice if the window washers
ate a good breakfast
[ protein / dairy / fruit / fat / grain ]
& took their pills
i look at cat’s dead birds & think about mine, how maybe it was
a Lazuli Bunting that
luna scooped up with naked hands, named it
something i’ve since forgotten when
we sat by the lake mulling over funeral arrangements
as you do when a bird dies, because you’re supposed
to throw away empty things
if you can’t recycle them
so i’m thinking maybe we buried it wrong, or
i just need something to blame for the claw marks
on the bathroom door, the fingerpaintings & confessions
[ she loses two teeth in one month / asks me if i have
any kids of my own / if i don’t could we pretend she’s
mine? / just for the summer? / just until i have to go? ]
agreeing is easy until blind fast
september strips me of motherhood
& she’s crying when i leave
& i’m crying in the car
& i vomit into an empty mcdonald’s cup
& im thinking about that stupid fucking bird
whose brokenness i hated so much that i buried it without
checking to see if it was still breathing

inkskinned

here are some things: you, cider, and music from the 90′s.

“are you sure you’re good with me staying over?” you ask. i’m painting my toenails bright bright red. you’re digging through your duffel bag. my cat won’t leave you alone.

it doesn’t need to be asked, so i don’t give an answer. i correct a smear with my thumbnail.

here are some things: once you told me to feel your hair, and when i reached out, you closed your eyes and leaned in.

“i got new socks,” you tell me.“check it.”

they’re fluffy alien socks. “job lot,” you say, “three ninety-nine.”

and then, grinning, you pull out a second pair. “So we can match,” you tell me. “they’ve got nonskid footies.”

here are some things: when i was six i once spent an hour coaxing a spider into a cup even though i was terrified. when i first met you, you smiled at me and i knew, suddenly, what it was like to be a spider in a cup.

you laugh at the look on my face, “I know,” you say, “i’m your best friend and you love me.”

i look down. and i tell myself. here. act like this is nothing.

rabbittmouth

What Lot’s Wife Would Have Said (if She Wasn’t a Pillar of Salt)

apoemaday

by Karen Finneyfrock

Do you remember when we met
in Gomorrah? When you were still beardless,
and I would oil my hair in the lamp light before seeing
you, when we were young, and blushed with youth
like bruised fruit. Did we care then
what our neighbors did
in the dark?

When our first daughter was born
on the River Jordan, when our second
cracked her pink head from my body
like a promise, did we worry
what our friends might be
doing with their tongues?

What new crevices they found
to lick love into or strange flesh
to push pleasure from, when we
called them Sodomites then,
all we meant by it
was neighbor.

When the angels told us to run
from the city, I went with you,
but even the angels knew
that women always look back.
Let me describe for you, Lot,
what your city looked like burning
since you never turned around to see it.

Sulfur ran its sticky fingers over the skin
of our countrymen. It smelled like burning hair
and rancid eggs. I watched as our friends pulled
chunks of brimstone from their faces. Is any form
of loving this indecent?

Cover your eyes tight,
husband, until you see stars, convince
yourself you are looking at Heaven.

Because any man weak enough to hide his eyes while his neighbors
are punished for the way they love deserves a vengeful god.

I would say these things to you now, Lot,
but an ocean has dried itself on my tongue.
So instead I will stand here, while my body blows itself
grain by grain back over the Land of Canaan.
I will stand here
and I will watch you
run.

rabbittmouth

creamsicle

dreamrafters

I say “your hair looks like it tastes like grape soda” and
you tell me it took three boxes of dye and two ruined
towels to get it that color. the bathwater ran lilac
and there was a purple ring around your mother’s tub
for a week before she made you get on your hands
and knees and scrub it out with Comet.

we don’t have skinned knees and loose teeth anymore
but we walk down to the gas station one evening and
buy popsicles from a deep freeze you have
to bow into up to your elbows, fishing them out like
rainbow trout frozen solid. they’re still making
those orange cream push pops with Fred Flintstone
on the front and I’ve never been so grateful for
small things, small memories. we pay in a motley
jumble of crumpled dollars and change and
the attendant tries to sell us a crack pipe with
a paper flower in it. we lick our popsicles and
laugh all the way out the door.

dusk falls like rose-tinted muslin, turning our shins
pink and raspberry, making your hair glow a
different shade of purple altogether. my hands
are sticky and I tear open the paper wrapper on
my push pop to lick the inside, wondering if
I look like any colors of the rainbow to you.

I’ve been in love with you since we were in third
grade and I think you know it but maybe you don’t.
I wish you did. I wish I was brave enough to do
something about it. I wish this was a movie where Ryan
Gosling gets the girl in the end, except in this version
Ryan rides off into the sunset alone in his cool car
and you and me both get the girl.

© H.K. @dreamrafters

REPRISE FOR THE BOY WHO COULDN’T HOLD HIS BREATH UNDERWATER

lukecohoon

let’s set the scene: it’s the summer of sweat & sin, grinding
dirt into pearls on the july sidewalk. you’re too old
to be a young God anymore but that never stopped you.
so it’s summer, so it’s hot, so you saw what you loved
and dived straight in. imagine,
your blue eyes closed, hair splayed out,
body flying like an arrow.
then you realise –
nobody has filled that pool in years. that boy
hadn’t been anything less than shallow for too long now.
so it’s summer, so you have a concussion,
missing a front tooth, left a little blood
on the cracked tile. here’s the thing; you don’t learn to swim
just because your head’s underwater. if there’s a word
for drowning in a person, his name wasn’t the right one.
so it’s summer, so everything is burning,
your freckles – your skin – your chapped lips –
so it’s summer, so you healed,
took a trip to the dentist. you don’t visit
the pool anymore.
some things just don’t deserve
the breath you give them.

teamcaptains

Adam Royle
I’ve been ruthless. I am. I copy, I cheat—and I seem an angel all the while. Daniel tried telling Mrs. Gunther I stole his essay idea. I did, but he didn’t have proof, and he looked like a fool. This is how you get to the top. You have to be Antarctic inside but honey and flowers on the outside. Charismatic, is what I mean. People love me, and though Daniel tells people I did him dirty, no one believes him. Who would? People want to believe in angels. They really, really do.

r

See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

summer bathtub

What Lot’s Wife Would Have Said (if She Wasn’t a Pillar of Salt)

creamsicle

REPRISE FOR THE BOY WHO COULDN’T HOLD HIS BREATH UNDERWATER