Three Months and Three Days
"Until you died I unknowingly believed I’d always have a ride home. And a home."
Poetry
“Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.” – Carl Sandburg
Three Poems by Molly Johnsen
"Limits," "Having a Seizure in Front of My Father," and "Alone Together."
How do we get home from here?
what you can’t foresee can’t hurt you but for now poked in the eye / of the storm, we hover.
Leipziger
On a good summer day,
You can still see young girls,
Strolling barefoot,
On the streets of Leipzig.
A Clothesline in Winter
What is it we wear
when there is nothing left
but rigid names for impossible
unsullied things?
If This Y Could Speak
Do I miss my half,
my copy, who twinned me & twined
down my spine? Yay & nay. Sometimes.
Some Days I Sound Like a Nihilistic John Lennon (Song)
Imagine there’s no heaven, and hell
is explained to us by the Quran
as the thing muddying our faces.
Everything I say is a lie
All of this a lie, because you can’t remember the apple tree,
so it was never there, and I was never there, and
and I am just like my father, a liar who remembers things
that never happened, never were, in those spans of years
Two Poems by Patrick Kindig
Slowly
a pile of red skin grows on the table,
like snow or eyelashes unattached
to a wish.
De Terre
The birds (of paradise) are chittering
which seems insufficient
for a poem, because it does not match
the intensity—or is it pain?—