poetry – Page 5 – April Fox

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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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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May 31, 2015

Lucky.

He brings me books: A biography of Elvis Costello; a notebook from 1932, filled with careful script: a schoolgirl’s notes on history; Tom Perotta and the like. He sings to me when I can’t sleep, tells me stories about bars and hidden tables talks me safely toward the morning, through the dark. He sits across…

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May 14, 2015

Old Women

They are relics now, standing side by side in crumpled parchment skin, flesh-colored stockings, sleeves and masks left too long in the fold pile slightly damp and scented of lavender, sunshine and mildew…

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April 28, 2015

Mother Whore and the Monsters on the Hill

…they are children playing dress-up in the whore mother’s clothes. Dirt track spreads her legs and welcomes everybody in, tries to make her face a little prettier…

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Tag: poetry