god of suicides


God of Suicides
Nava EtShalom

I have been wrong before, god of syntax
and understatement, god of slips in silk
and polyester, god of the laboratory, god of newsprint
and sunscreen, god of gulls, god of the unlocked bakery,
god of twins, god of all the cities of my youngest years,
god of the nurses who walk those wards, god
of sensible shoes and of Wall Street, god of whales
and their depths, god of the kitchen, god
of the blood clot, god of the authoritative sentence,
god of weight and liquor, god of scarves
and of the required fast, god of the green room
and the downbeat, god of lemons,
god of the disappeared and god of their mothers,
god of the highway’s meridian, god
of all 206 bones and the compulsive catalogue,
god of freckles, god of rhinoplasty, god of narcotics, god
of the Five-Year Plan, god of the solemn
and the sudden, god of the stage,
god of runways, god of release on one’s own
recognizance, god of the unrecognized face, god
of divorce and of lip gloss, god of crosswalks
and alphabets, god of M16s
and god of hands without instructions,
god of attention, god of the tucked
chin, god of the article,
god of the attitude, god of direction, god
of the brownstone and its master bedroom,
god of the pinstriped suit, the knuckles,
but in all of these furious declamatory years the question
has never been, god of what, god of the city’s brick,
god of my palm, god of my open mouth.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash



Fleur Adcock

What was she supposed to use for ink —
blood? Breast milk? Amniotic fluid?
Too late for those. Too late altogether.
Some things are impossible to write.

Photo by MJ S on Unsplash

our eunuch dreams


Our Eunuch Dreams
Dylan Thomas


Our eunuch dreams, all seedless in the light,
Of light and love the tempers of the heart,
Whack their boys' limbs,
And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet,
Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night
Fold in their arms.

The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds,
When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm,
The bones of men, the broken in their beds,
By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb.


In this our age the gunman and his moll
Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel,
Strange to our solid eye,
And speak their midnight nothings as they swell;
When cameras shut they hurry to their hole
down in the yard of day.

They dance between their arclamps and our skull,
Impose their shots, showing the nights away;
We watch the show of shadows kiss or kill
Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie.


Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which
Shall fall awake when cures and their itch
Raise up this red-eyed earth?
Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch,
The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich,
Or drive the night-geared forth.

The photograph is married to the eye,
Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth;
The dream has sucked the sleeper of his faith
That shrouded men might marrow as they fly.


This is the world; the lying likeness of
Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move
Loving and being loth;
The dream that kicks the buried from their sack
And lets their trash be honoured as the quick.
This is the world. Have faith.

For we shall be a shouter like the cock,
Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack
The image from the plates;
And we shall be fit fellows for a life,
And who remains shall flower as they love,
Praise to our faring hearts.

Photo by Kent Pilcher on Unsplash

i woke up, and the day caught me


I woke up, and the day caught me

Kara Jackson

i woke up and the day caught me

in its mouth like a strand of yarn
i am useful
the motivation for a scarf, maybe

some stitch started to be finished
i will make up someone’s
heat i will be a fire
so intricate it can be worn

i woke up and the day called on me
specifically, threw my name through the sky
the way children are thought up
trials pulled through the stars

i woke up and like anyone who wakes
and asks why i checked my feet,
rubbed the bones for their reality
i keep waking though i’ve asked for rest

cornered the moon in the alley,
pawned the dark to assume its place
and still i return to that burning chin
honour that persistent candle

because who will wake up if not me?
who will the day catch then
if i am not the centre of its tongue?

what of the women who keep waking?
what of my mother, who has asked for rest, too?
and her mother, tucked into an endless slumber

i woke up and the day thanked me
for coming so far. i know rest is a long
walk from the sun, i know we’ve been up
for so long, that sleep doesn’t settle
for my blood. me, daughter of the rooster’s song

but when the day calls i will answer to my name
claim it like a fire rushing toward living things
i will rise because there is someone praying
for me to remain still

Photo by Karen Penroz on Unsplash

self and dream self


Self and Dream Self

Les Murray

Routines of decaying time
fade, and your waking life
gets laborious as science.
You huddle in, becoming
the deathless younger self
who will survive your dreams
and vanish in surviving.
Dream brings on its story
at the pace of drift
in twilight, sunless color,
its settings are believed,
a library of wood shingles,
plain mythic furniture
vivid drone of talk,
yet few loves return:
trysts seem unkeepable.
Urgencies from your time
join with the browner suits
walking those arcades with you
but then you are apart,
aghast, beside the numberless
defiling down steep fence
into an imminence —
as in the ancient burrow
you, with an ever-changing cast,
survive deciding episodes
till you are dismissed
and a restart of tense
summons your waking size
out through shreds of story.
Photo by Gigi on Unsplash

heart beat


Heart Beat
Frank Bidart

ear early tuned to hear beneath the call to end
eating flesh, sentient suffering beings (creatures

bred now for slaughter will
then never be bred)   less   life   less   life   tuned to hear

still the vow solemn and implacable I made as a kid

walking a sidewalk in Bakersfield

never to have a child, condemn a creature
to this hell     as the prisoner

chorus in wonder is released into the sun, ear early tuned to hear
beneath the melody the ground-bass   less   life   less   life

Photo by Charles Deluvio on Unsplash

song of social despair


Song of Social Despair
Marvin Bell

Ethics without faith, excuse me,
is the butter and not the bread.
You can’t nourish them all, the dead
pile up at the hospital doors.
And even they are not so numerous
as the mothers come in maternity.
The Provider knows his faults—
love of architecture and repair—
but will not fall into them for long:
he can’t afford the adolescent luxury,
the fellowship of the future
looks greedily toward his family.
The black keys fit black cylinders
in the locks in holes in the night.
He had a skeleton key once,
a rubber arm and complete confidence.
Now, as head of the family, he is
inevitably on the wrong side looking out.

what i’ve learned about trauma


What I’ve Learned About Trauma
Brenna Twohy

It isn’t as easy as being
Something That Happened to You
a package you opened once.

You will wake up in a new ZIP code
have to wander your way home,
carry a few of the things you love to this new place
you live in now.

& so you buy throw pillows.
You put up twinkle lights & have a big celebration,

point at the open windows
& tell everyone who has ever seen you crying –


                 look how I have not caged myself.

                 look what I have made out of two paint buckets

                 and the blessing of my still-here body.

but, of course,
trauma leans into the bar cart.

Spills a drink on the new rug.
Breaks off the door handle on his way out.

Trauma sends you letters
without warning
for the rest of your life,
usually disguised as something else –

a medical bill, maybe,
or a box of photo albums packaged up by your father,

just so you remember
trauma knows exactly where you live—

who did you think built the house?

Photo by Cindy Tang on Unsplash