April Fox

Category: nc poetry

September 11, 2015

Pillbug

“I don’t care what you think of me,” he shouts into his megaphone, short fat body like a pillbug all rolled up and just as smart words like stagnant water, they have no substance no ability to hurt or to wash anything away “I don’t care what you think of me,” he shouts garbled speech…

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September 6, 2015

Vintage Christmas

I have paid a thousand hours penance for her spun silk hair and faded blue eyes sliced my voice on the shattered glass of fragile Christmas bulbs golden stars and sparkling orbs, blue and red and green and touched with glitter in the center of something plastic, the holy parents pray over the lifeless molded…

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August 26, 2015

Claws

There’s something out there trying to get in. I can feel it scratching, metal claws against the walls torn away at the quick and still the fingers keep on coming. There’s something out there trying to let go Spidersilk arms and legs and black graffiti hair tangled up around the pages of the burning calendar. …

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August 8, 2015

Prom Queen [Not Autobiographical]

I never could have been the prom queen, perfect hair and teeth and nails, smiling sweetly for the cameras humble under my sash and crown and waiting for the crowd to blink and offer up the chance to pull the flask out from between my legs beneath the satin curtain of my dress. I was…

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August 6, 2015

Lost Dogs

This feels empty as if the dogs have all gone home and left us to our own devices, on our own to deal with the monsters and the maniacs hiding in the shadows and even with the lights all on, the television blaring comedy and news into our deconstructed brains, there is a silence and…

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August 1, 2015

A Love Letter to Pat Robertson

The lights are on in your great glass house but there’s nothing there to see. Your eyes are glued to the man next door, face pressed against his window in a gruesome caricature, bulging against the panes, lashes wet with lust and your palms nailed tight to the cross you wear like a brace to…

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July 30, 2015

Written

And in this sorrow, we create ourselves: faces sketched in dull graphite, erased and drawn again until the lines are blurred and the edges of our eyes are indistinct and the creases of our mouths are parentheses, capturing all the things we never said. In this sorrow, we are written indelible and clear we are…

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July 20, 2015

Scene from a Dive Bar

The whores are dancing in sensible shoes to the beat of the songs that they loved in their youth Once upon a time, they might have been pretty. Open-mouthed, scanning the room, looking for something they’ve lost they are better loved than all of us they are tired and want to go home.

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July 10, 2015

Scribble.

And in the middle of this, there are lines drawn in chewed-paper crayons and apple-red lipstick, in pencils with metal eraser bands sharpened and cruel, in the sand on the sidewalk outside a long-outgrown day care’s fenced playground with a stick, dragged behind carelessly In the cracks of the mirrors, the anger-creased palms, the wrinkles…

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July 10, 2015

Toll Bridge

I think you might have dropped this here. I think you might have left these things behind, stuck to the bottom of your shoe and fallen off, or caught on a tiny piece of lint inside your pocket, and let go when you took a dollar out to pay the toll. I think you might…

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