Poems

Crime Story

624 Thesselonia Avenue
10:51 a.m., March 25

What have we got here?

Boys on the way to school found her.
They touch the body, move anything?
Nah, they were so scared they took off running.

Got an ID? Got any identifying marks?
Nope, dress has no pockets, probably just a tart.
Or a goddess, Lenny, you know it’s hard
To tell ‘em apart on the road in the dark.

Dun. Dun. Continue reading “Crime Story”

Poems

From the Water

Pasifae by Oscar Estruga

Spin me into the story resting in your bones,
Whirl the stormy past into sea foam until
The moon appears inside your home.
Spin me into life where memories are made.

Put your pen to paper and your paper
To my heart. Sign the oath of salt water
Arising from my birth. Tempt the maker
Of the times that lie within your grasp. Continue reading “From the Water”

Poems

Hidden

Under the bridge, the white morning glories
rest from the work that has circled them in,
that has pinched energy into rest, life
into death, bloom into shell of that bloom.
I run over that bridge, desire like wood
splintering from me and landing in vines.
I hear them whisper about me. I hear
everything whisper about me—the trees,
the grass, the wind. I am known like I never
was inside those walls. I am known unlike
a girl before people, in the hunting
moon, in the time of the wolf’s breath, my life
hidden in reeds titled by the current.
I appear when thorns etch my lines in dust.

–Shaun Perkins

Poems

The Return: Psyche & Eros

When I return to you, I will remember
My life before the mountain. I will soak
The western wind, the dark musky nights,
The fall, the trials, and those who played
A part all together in the river
Behind our house where I spent
Those days you were not real to me.
I will never pull them out,
Never clip them to a line to dry,
Never fold and put them away. Continue reading “The Return: Psyche & Eros”

Events

Preparation

The sewing needle rests next to my eighth
vertebrate. I cannot feel it but know
it is there. The thread circles my kidneys
like amber capillaries. A sloping
row of real pearl buttons, tiny full moons,
bump into my small intestine. Silk blocks
wrap the ligaments of my arms, as if
my bones are on fire and must be bandaged
by something cool. A piece of lace crumpled
into a triangle lines my womb. All
that I am, all of my tools and notions,
I have swallowed and absorbed. I now leave
their world. I open the door to the night
and drink my thimbles before I run out.

 

–Shaun Perkins

(Tam Lin)