It’s right where you left it
the radial arm
saw, even though mum moved. The deep
cutting 12” blade, the chopped-out fence,
the bench that held every deck board.
Better it should stay in your cave, I an apart-
ment dweller then, watching moths land
on my scotch glass fourth floor studio.
I ran wood through for Ade’s changing table
when I could. The biscuits glued to my fingers.
Now it’s a dresser & drawn on, a child’s possession.
Up & down go the drill-pressed adjustable shelves:
books, clothes, thank god no more diapers.
I have your grip—the screws I torqued
into solid maple hold doors flush.
The stain still refracting walnut. All the measures
we take to finish our work, patience for geometry
& the bottomless screwdriver drawer. I am
the magician now, already was when you called
from the kitchen: where the pry bar, the hammer,
where the jar of 3” interior screws? Sighing, & down
the three-riser skeleton of the steps
& into your workspace, picking whatever
thingy up & plopping it at your head
as you, jackknifed, bent in prayer
to the broken pieces of my childhood
home: it’s right where you left it.
Photo by Ian D. Keating
Joey Gould is a long-time contributor to Mass Poetry who has twice been nominated for Bettering American Poetry and once for a Pushcart Prize. He has performed in The Poetry Circus, Elle Villanelle’s Poetry Bordello, and The Poetry Society of New York’s Poetry Brothel. He writes 100-word reviews as poetry editor for Drunk Monkeys. He’s working on a website: joeygouldpoetry.wordpress.com
You can follow Joey on Twitter @toshines
relics of infant’s
creep, buds sealed
spade into fermented
out blue blooms of
© Anthony Gorman 2018
Grumpy Gorman is a writer and visual artist with extensive lived trauma. He’s worked in the field of Mental Health and addictions in crisis management. Much of his writing helps with processing the absorbed horrors and sorrows experienced vicariously through the recounts of resilient and amazing clients. Additionally, he lives with the daily splendors and burdens of his own bipolar disorder. With a fervor for micropoetry, poetry his writing strives to back big emotions into small clusters of words. Grumpy is privileged to share with you. You can read more of his writing at Hands in the Garden
a city map is sewn in the scalp;
looped in the goat-milk, or spit out,
tongued in silky blades of stomped
i’m crowned with high-pitched fingers
clenched in fur.
in octaves only shades can bear, i simmer
in their holy cradles.
i become the roughened corner of a mouth
grinning at its own joke.
there, the receding home in ranch-style polaroid’s of a dirty blond stranger and my mother squinting in the sun; some home not mine or yours.
in a woman’s left grows tiny,
and in a man’s more supple.
i keep alive by milking goats.
some like lifelines, some like ulcers
the city streets are braided in my hair.
Samantha Lucero writes at sixredseeds.
In the boot of your car, there are several bottles of wine and a shovel of which we use to bury our secrets with because the world has no place for the likes of us. In your pocket, there are filters to block out the voices of those we once resembled, filters your childhood self would be shocked and alarmed to see. Much the same as how my younger self would be shocked and alarmed in coming face to face with the abstraction of what I’ve since become. In a field away from prying eyes, I place the blanket on a spot of flush grass and together we admire the unspoilt view of miles and miles of nowhere and everywhere with an ocean of blue sky above us that leads to an ocean of water as my hand slides beneath your top caressing your waist. And then it’s your breasts and then it’s my mouth and teeth on your neck and then you push me down upon the blanket and we roll and rock in ways none of them will ever be able to measure. In the distance, a city rumbles like a belly full of booze and not much else. In the hidden soil, all that we have ever lost is regained with each kiss. This globe is a tiny one, and yet we do what we do as if we weren’t mere humans but entities, like those on the moor up north, y’know, the one where Heathcliff and Cathy play? We taste these kicks and dig our fingers in pretending it’s not how it is but it’s exactly that which is why we’re here, kissing without the need for anyone else to ruin our vision. Your lips are cherry, and the way your hair catches the breeze, it’s a memory of London, and it’s a memory of paint on canvas and the quietness of my life before you made yourself known. We were always meant to find each other, and we were always meant to come undone in each other’s embrace. There was no other way. As my fingers touch yours and you whisper those words into my ear, I tell you to close your eyes and picture us stood at the end of a pier throwing stones into the sea. It’s a place we can go where they’ll never come looking. Where our love will remain as pure as the night when everything else crumbles. We discovered it almost by chance, and when it gets too much and we lose sight of things, all we have to do is go back, and our souls align themselves once more.
[ S. K. Nicholas is the creator of My Red Abyss and author of A Journal for Damned Lovers, his first novel. He is a brilliant writer and a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective. To learn more about S.K. and A Journal for Damned Lovers read Jasper Kerkau’s interview with S.K. and his review of A Journal for Damned Lovers. ]