Three Hours Before The War

Karem Barratt/Singing Heart

Singing Heart

@Karem Barratt

Venezuela soldier aiming at civilians

Cinnamon dreams fly from porridge bowls,

In the cool, early morning light.

To the music of a xylophone, the radio

Announcer chants the bargains of the day.

Humming, she goes about, in the warm

Embrace of the kitchen I don’t want to leave.

But the bus is coming, driving slowly

Over shaded lanes, the sun spinning

Delicate laces through the canopy

Of the acacia trees, birds singing sins

(My father used to say), choiring with

Crickets and tea pots, while iron pans

Fry merry dawns out of humble eggs.

The bus honks, and she calls my name,

Her eyes bright with dreams

That will not come to pass.

But she believes, and I believe with her,

Because last night I saw a man

Walking on the moon, weaved in

A tapestry of grey blinking stars

That sounded, at times, like the sea in a shell

-But the bus…

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of roses that fell in love with grief. i.

ari purkayastha/Fallen Alone

Fallen Alone

wp-1493221410020.do you remember how your skin had mottled over her words?

you had thorns digging themselves out of your bones and vines crawling all around your throat, trapping the last remnants of their antipathy to fester in your lungs.

i remember you suffocating for days afterwards. days that were defined by your capability to distinguish the sunrise from sunset. days that were a motley mess of every sound that echoed loud enough in your skull to shatter mirrors. days that you still hold close to yourself, because she left roses at your door-

she who wooed your grief.

i wish you had seen those roses for the fault lines of your heart like she had intended. i wish you had seen those roses as anything other than hope.

••ari purkayastha

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A Short Story About Us After They’ve Gone

A. Marie/Poet’s Corner

Poet's Corner

She is a winged doe, plodding along the kitchen tile,
hither/thither clipping orchids, melting wax, reaching out
to catch the tray of flutes before it falls—
but it falls, makes such a racket, cacophony of clattering
she curses, spouts a string of psalms and esoteric verses,
kicks the chunks of shards and tires her feet,
shoves it in a corner and forgets about it until the night,
slings the cupboards open and demands I climb
to the tippy-most tower where her grandfather’s
old boozy glassware has waited five decades to be touched,

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Whisper and the Roar

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If you are not following Whisper and the Roar, you should be!

Whisper and the Roar, a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective family is a Feminist Literary Collective (& outlaw poets swearing).  It is the badass brainchild of Miss Georgia Park, of Private Bad Thoughts.  The writing is not all overtly feminist but the writers are.  It the home of some very exciting content you should be reading.

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