In the last remaining minutes of the year I tiptoefrom the party and out the back doorto breathe in what is left and what will soon be gone,to salvage some small silence before the corks popand the sky burns with crackling rain. This would be the perfect moment for a cigaretteif I hadn’t decided now was the time to kick the habit.So I turn to my old habit of eavesdropping – listeningto gossip in the undertones of dark hours. The winter wind rustles the remains of a magnolia tree.The …
Grief in Summer
Life said, See this dead birdon your evening walkwhere tree becomes root,and now I want to stainmy hands with soil. I want the throb of a strawberryand the burst of redflowering gums against tepid sky. I want golden hour coffee,the kind that will keep my chestthrumming past midnight. I want the warm milk breathof anyone I love on my skin. There are two sorrows—what is no longer,and what never was. And stillwhat is yet to be lostis a third thing.Haunting, pulsating. I …
TINA TURNER’S WIG GIVES ITS FINAL PUBLIC ADDRESS
I ain’t no wig. I am a high jeweled crownheliotrope to the spotlight.I may not have roots but anyone can seewe–all of us–are inseparable.The first compassionate partner she ever got to choose. She sat me on her knee–not like a doll,but a sister–and chanted herself empty. The care she needed,she massaged into each lock.She said: You better be good to me,said her real name was Anna Mae,then told every pebble of her storybetween Nutbush to Buckingham Palace. She explained I was her …
Letter to the Editor
Kimberly Garrett is the author of several pieces of unpublished poetry. She has submitted nowhere and she is currently working on her first work of fiction set during the Regency period. She uses all of her free time commuting to work from Pittsburg, CA. She has more unpublished work forthcoming. Photo by jeein ← Return to the issue …
Spent
The people in the thrift store todaycircle, slow-moving but determined sharks,each one intent on making a scorethat justifies some of the daysspent on the factory floor,in the restaurant, kitchen or at the counter,or sitting in the lobby of the temp agency,waiting for the bell to ringand their reward to drop. I find two dress shirtsand two pairs of slacks.No holes, rips, or stains.I feel like I’m holdinga winning scratch-off ticket.Fingering some carnival glass,I take in the whole …
ART GOES TO DIE IN THE NIGHTCLUB
waiting on line for a sex party, sebas and igo back and forth inventing partieswe’d rather be attending—what we’d throwif money, physics, and law were alldifferent animals: a vaccine and hormonedistro-party with a cry-floor and dance-bathroom. a party where we assemblearms and storm the pharmaceuticalheadquarters stoned in hand-stoned gowns.a party where we dance on the ceilingbefore flooding the streets to shatterthe windows of every living waymo.conflagration party. extrication …