Dena Rash Guzman
this is scatterbrain / a theory of a war-torn mind
Emily Kendal Frey
WE TURN OUR ATTENTION TO THE DARKNESS OF INFINITE SPACE
My feelings for you have yellowed / Turkey sandwich, ham sandwich
Money Is Murder
I once heard / of a teenager / who threw / a fifty-cent piece / off a highway overpass
A red wherever / sunlight has fallen
April 28, 2013
you had / a little headache from / the light dinner / of boiled flowers
The president is shooting holes / Through my bedsheet. Why are / you laughing?
We are thirsty and we wish for rain
We speak towards proper weather. / Towards knowing the horizon as well as / our heft, our hips.
Stand at the sink shelling pistachios / contemplating how well the Xanax is / working.
the glass pinecones / reflect your cold climate character
Black Like Me
I’m so black that I make Micheal Blackson / not seem so / Black, son
The waves wash me up in an imaginary bikini. / I put my fingers in your mouth, / and you push me under.
I keep saying it out loud, your name / meaning April, meaning Spring.
Shannon D. Bushnell
I’ve Been Looking for Jobs in Antarctica
Memories are like stars / Admire the sky as a whale
Raquel Salas Rivera
moon / swallower of magnifying glasses / scalpel of light
To Join Always
Absolutely necessary is to join always more things. / And further because I think the wind.
MEMOIR/COMPOSITION WITH FISH
There as an abstract silver quality not belonging / to any frenzy or food
47 Poems: A Poem
Wrapt in gentle tulle chiffon / silk and linen / cup my balls in lukewarm saline
I masturbated in a synagogue. I ate kangaroo meat. I filled the bottom of a tent with vomit.
Polyphemus, Sable Island
Ignorance! Ignorance! Ignorance lit! Vitric / twist of sun! O / the plastic brain!
When Mama says / Fists up / We ready to swing
East of Center
The desert climbs East / into the watermelon mountains, / Offering its cactus flowers to boulders
The summer after the tornado / my family lived / in the Residence Inn, and we had to get away.
Joni Renee Whitworth
Targhee National Forest
I am with other pilgrims near the corn chips.
Emily Kendal Frey
OBSERVATION SHOULD BE THE BASIS OF EXPRESSION
You stood there / The words sort of rushing / At that person / You used to love
Shadab Z. Hashmi
Qasida of the One who Assumed the Posture of the Slave
Beloved, where was I to look / but in the mixed beads / of ablution and sweat
Now imagine a clean delineation, / to deliver some things / just by pulling them around.
YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY PRECIOUS SON
She said on the day of his / execution. Can you imagine?
In the morning the sound of streets goes with the cars. / Tip of the dream phenomenon.
Sarah Louise Garrido
Revealing what’s been waited for, / the sun announces itself.
Ketchup bottles the bebop / muse. This door / I’m walking through / is physical.
You Guys, I Took Up Smoking Again
I took up nail polish / In Millennial Pink. I started mixing Sangria / With Coca-Cola.
I lived in an unfamiliar city, / Far away from my mother.
ways in which I feel cavernous
you insist I can’t crush with the weight / of my worship, but that rocket-smooth thrust: / just moves, babe.
East as in Love and What I Couldn’t Say
It was easy to feel like the goddess of water in the desert / When you swam in my belly
Santa Fe Funeral
Huevos rancheros for breakfast, / the colors red, white and yolk
Reflect Self, Koi Pond
Aged teen clanks stick against steel fence, / forcing ice to abandon important posts.
This is a week of garlic
A week of horror, / a week of bells.
I’ll be with you in a minute, / just gotta torch the corpse of true love
“The problem of America is my body.”—Alice Notley
Every gustatory pleasure / is a field / that will one day fail / to provide pasture.
19 months, 2 weeks: expire
Sara Mumolo knew the name of her mother? / Do you know how to describe emptiness?
I was attracted to the way he smelled in / afterschool camouflage as we kneeled / in autumn fields of easy targets.
Blasphemy is Easy in Love
Her brothers passed me at the dinner table like salt.
When the last satellite blinks out / we’ll be left with only stars again
I am a pale gleam / on the sheets / my mouth the next verse / we lean into
Kyle John Crawford
Poem Written Outside Firth, Nebraska
I asked the white light / to which tribe my family’s / coat belong, and how a shiver works / in the sun.
“A bad boy is a good boy with a sad story.”—Mac Wellman
Certainly I’ve torn starlings apart / with my bare hands, / while smoking a cigar
© Ink Node, 2019