Torrid WisteriaBy Ghia Vitale  Torrid wisteria grows on a vine
that wanders more than vintage wine. Her tendrils curl in floral bliss, longing for a forbidden kiss.
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Gates of DawnBy Genevieve Pfeiffer  I went to a place where sound died. Where I could walk for days without stopping, without
breathing to anyone’s rhythm but my own. Where the sun blossomed and reached for me; the trees: my abortionBy RC deWinter  it was no emergency
just a sad ballet in unchoreographed tissue the bloody proof of biological failure needing to be flushed They say the permafrost will melt.By Genevieve Pfeiffer *Author's Note: For Y.  They say the permafrost will melt. They say it’s melting now at the rate it should melt in 2090. I
A Haunted MindBy Ghia Vitale  Photo Credit: Pixabay.com I am haunted by a ghost
who has claimed me as his host and the hollow of my headspace as his eternal resting place. starsongsBy RC deWinter  on of my favorite journals had a typo in a post
but it made perfect sense to me it read the telltale sings of stars in context it was obvious they meant signs ManiocA reading of the play "Manioc" by Christine Sloan Stoddard at Poetic Open Sessions, curated by Poetic Theater Productions in New York City. Actors include Valentín Sánchez-Stoddard (Girl), Mateo Vargas (Indian Chief), Disnie Sebastien (Mani), and Christine Sloan Stoddard (Stage directions, White Man). The reading took place over Zoom on May 3, 2020 because of the COVID-19 quarantine. Waist DeepBy Hayden Moore  ‘The weird sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine’ (William Shakespeare: Macbeth, Act I scene iii) At the hour when the shade lay least on the wooded shore, the girl walked on the thirsty rocks and felt the sun’s power on her back. An oppressive heat which had lasted for weeks made the mountain heaped high upon the giant’s throat in the distance look like fantasy. On this little stretch of land shaped like a bow, Scylla tried to convince herself it was a place of peace. Not far behind her, the Cyclops’ field still never knew the plough and the narrow strait that led out to sea welcomed ships. The herb-clad hills that marked the way back to the mainland were still bountiful and food for birds and butterflies. But as the sun on her skin reminded her she was mortal, Scylla left the dark shore without a ship in sight. She headed back to the hills without a sprout. In the field of the Cyclops, the ground was still smoking. In her mind, the song was still meaningful. Wise WitchBy Ghia Vitale  Photo Credit: Pexels.com One needn’t fear a wise witch,
but rather, one’s own deeds. Reality, down to each stitch, expands through astral seeds. |
