He did not know what the sky was made of.
He did not know what fire tasted like.
He Pleaded Ignorance
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
All posts tagged: Poetry
How I Knew It Wasn’t Me
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
I only realised I was at risk
when my brother phoned to check if I was still alive—
Odd One Out in the Dementia Ward
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
It’s a cold, bleak day
which might explain why she says:
“This is my daughter Nuala,
who has come all the way from South Africa to visit me.”
Brief Fling in the Dementia Ward
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
My mother has a brief flirtation
with Mr. Otto, a rare male in Frail Care.
He has the look of a Slavic conductor
—sweeping, side-parted silver locks
offset his visible nappy line.
Widowhood in the Dementia Ward
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
“Oh my God, I’m so pleased to see you,”
she says from her nest of blankets.
“I’ve been meaning to ask—
How is your father?
How is Paddy?”
The Window
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
You fitted so snugly
through the window I opened wide for you.
Then you shut it with a bang giving me your back.
The shards, too small, took forever to gather.
I put them in that wooden bowl you made.
Writer
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Podcasts & Audio, Poetry
Histoplasmosis: A Guide’s Instruction at the Cave
September 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
If after a few weeks you find yourself coughing,
your chest laced in a corset of steel,
tell your doctor you were here.
Tell him about the bats, their investment in the dark,
their droppings spongy fudge
which you probably tramped on in the cave,
the spores you may have breathed
now inhabiting your lung tissue,
taking all your breath
for the growing fungus
inside you.
Studies
April 9, 2012
Poetry
By AMELIA GRAY
Not enough snow to stick, Mother says. A pissing thin layer of the saddest slick. Even the road made visible underneath. Used to be you could die in a winter, wander right off the road and dead in a field before you had your second thought, but these days everyone gets to their destination. Have you ever arrived in a springtime with your entire family intact?
“An All But Empty Set”
April 6, 2012
Issue 03, Issue 03 Poetry, Poetry
He or she was hard-wired
to calculate
in nanoseconds, light years; to climb
summit to summit above
the squat mud settlements, and oversee
the pyramid poised on pyramid
