I cannot work-a-bone until I’ve showered
this ghost-froth from my membrane.
Author: museajournal
We walked back to our camp, stumbling on liquor
and deep sand, pushing and holding one another.
Call me wife most pale, since
you and your god will not
Sometimes, to continue the metaphor, you could not remember being beaten up.
The ambition of the sea crests higher
than our will, but we still seek the water.
Show me your favorite teeth, the ones that pave your smile. I’ll wear them around my neck
She cried over her bowl of Carbonara:
no one had ever cooked like that for her.
When the man I love asked me how I found
him I didn’t tell him the truth.
His silence, a reply strict as Leviticus, held us in its undertow until we were men with secrets of our own.
Wait for the ash blanket and the concrete
wall of stone when the lights go out
that morning Mother was afraid
afraid of God and i held her hand
It remembers when I wore a mask
with gnarled head and long beak
Just because. Threw them to the pigs.
He just wanted to tongue with sin.
The once-wife married the fields.
Let a draught be ready.
Art by: Stephanie Dowda /Words by: Brenna Kischuk, Emily Hipchen, Yusef Komunyakaa…