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Copyright © 2009 Wordletting. All rights reserved. All rights to the poetry on this website are owned by the individual authors, and no part of this site may be reproduced, published, distributed, displayed, performed, copied, or used in any other manner for public or private purposes. |
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Page 4 |
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Issue 3 |
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The Family That Falls
My mother got the falling disease early. She embarrassed me, tumbling on sidewalks, dropping things: grocery bags, hats, gloves, me.
By the time my father got it I was more accepting but I had to be more accepting—by then everyone else had it also: my brothers, their children. There were variations of course: my grandmother twitched, my grandfather cursed.
For some reason I never got it; families are like that—there's always someone left out.
— Adam Jeffries Schwartz |
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Jave Mocha
There will be none of that, no fancy words of whimsy, no sprinkles on your mocha. Definitely, no whipped
cream. I will barely see you until noon, my eyes slit against snow angels, against paper cups, against
words that begin with L. There are beds to be made, teeth to brush, trivialities of rebuilding the nest, biting the worm,
sluffing the skin of yesterday's wishes, the hair of the perfume of last night, of constellations, of you.
— Jai Britton |
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Memories
You continue to drink my tea As if this day is not really happening.
The olives in the fridge look at me Tempestuously red. I pretend to yawn.
I consider a Max Jacob poem and You sit on top of me, chewing.
Outside the sky is suspicious And damp and wants to be smaller.
I pin to your back a paper Fish, its ink gills flit in the breeze.
— Ramesh Dohan |
