between his shoulder blades

Daffni Gingerich


He’s not listening so with two hands I grab his face and make him look at me. When I go to say words they don’t come so I walk away because it’s no use. I crawl in his dreams and find myself in a nightclub and when he wakes up I crawl under his sheets and snuggle between his shoulder blades. I sniff him and taste him and ruffle his hair. He’s salty and tired. But me, I have to write so I lug myself out of bed, a little huffy that I can’t stay longer and let him drift back into his strange dreams. His dreams, those ones that I write down and make my own for future use. Monsters, two headed women, and masked creatures of the night. A light just out of reach and a tunnel where I find his face between my thighs. There’s words scribbled…

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There’s This Door

S. K. Nicholas

S. K. Nicholas


In a room with the curtains drawn, she turns her back on me and curls into a ball. When I put my arm around her, I want to give her my words, but I’m frightened by what’s inside. So I keep quiet. She waits and waits, but there’s nothing from my mouth save for the warm air I breathe against the back of her neck. Sometimes she cries. She tosses and turns always making sure to hide her face from mine. The hours tick away. She falls asleep then wakes, and when she rolls over and looks me in the eyes, all at once I feel as light as a feather and as heavy as the black dog on my shoulder.

From somewhere outside comes the sound of meowing cats. They sing in a chorus only they know the meaning of. In my clumsy way, I meow just like them…

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City Maenad

Basilike Pappa

Silent Hour

Saturday lights, the city’s luminous eyes. Car engines, bike engines, the underground, they are all saints trembling in ecstasy. Athens sprawls and spreads to the four points of the horizon. All destinations unfold before my feet, but tonight there is only one. Parked across Academias Street, my little family is waiting for me.

The Journey Begins loud and clear in the car, while Stavros is wedging here and there into the traffic. Eleutheria, serene and esoteric as usual, is leaning against the car window, looking out as if saying goodbye. Elias and Alexis are sharing a joke, and then we are all laughing together. As The Journey changes toTake Hold, I refresh my cherry lipstick in the sun visor mirror. A glow in the hollow of my throat: hanging by a fine silver chain, the pendant I never take off these days. Every time I see it…

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Max Meunier

Max Meunier

ere shall i draw
that final breath

each day
a death
is born

from the fragments
of an old familiar effigy

its torment does reprise

the contrast
from what i have felt
to what i must now feel

evokes a revelation
so surreal
words are left wanting

amid its starkness
darkness lingers nigh

as i submit
to this insidious impaling
of my heart

apart from any semblance
of the soul
that stormed the isle

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David Lohrey


Tuck Magazine

TUCK MAGAZINE – Online political, human rights and arts magazine


March 14, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

duncan c photo


David Lohrey

We Are the World, Not You

Our professors celebrate the death of American citizens.

Our professors hope to see our enemies win.

Our police are shot point-blank by social-justice warriors

seeking the resurrection of slavery, only this time of whites.

Dreams of integration and harmony are dead. Those who suffer

injustice are inconsolable. In their desolation, they seek

retribution. The dreams of Martin Luther King and Mandela are

forgotten. Their celebrations of the human spirit slighted and belittled.

The aggrieved openly plot the downfall of mankind. Vengeance is sought.

They yearn not to cultivate but to destroy. They hunger after death;

they thirst for blood: heads on pikes, political assassinations, mass killings,

hopes of quick getaways and eternal glory – all filmed and set to…

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