Poetry

—6660.222 Ghosts that haunt all the secondhand curiosities in antique stores and thrift shops: musty ghosts in the vintage dresses, moth-ghosts in the tailcoats, ghosts that haunt the cracked teacups,
the worn-soled boots, the rusted skeleton keys

JESSIE LYNN MCMAINS,
RUST BELT JESSIE’S TAXONOMY OF GHOSTS

Obituary—Helena Steel

An old man hiding from the morbid heat, 
sits in a dusty bar on the edge of town,
orders a double bourbon, swats away 
a fly, reads out loud from the newspaper.

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Two Poems—KB Ballentine

Deluge overwhelms, divides the river
 in desperate rush and roil,
dryads clinging to mossy stones.
 Rhododendrons drip, petals sloughing,
drowning in muddy puddles along the path.

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Two Poems—Andrew Walker

I do not have nightmares 
               of my teeth falling out—
they are all there every night
               in spades, like spades.

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A Swarm Unto Herself—Barlow Adams

I know a woman with a beehive for a head, big as the pyramids, a basket woven by slave hands, fit for a queen, too small for a princess, labyrinthine and honey-trap. She sits in a cemetery older than art, raw-rubbed limestone slick before the first mammoth graced a cavern wall.

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Two Poems—Jayd Green

All was amniotic & suspended in circus fluid – dancers and skaters all around your roundness. You were a bubble, a sponge, a dot. Your neighbour was a newt’s breakfast. 

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Witches stuff moss into my cheeks, flush to the bone. In the slanted light you can/ imagine their death, but they are/ dying again when you run over a railway bridge with a Chinese lantern, dying again as a barn owl flies over a roundabout, silent arch over glowing tarmac.

SOPHIE DICKINSON, BROOK