I Don't Know Why, But I Can't Stop Trying
I think about darkness
when I am with you
I can't help but button up
rather than down
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I think about darkness when I am with you I can't help but button up rather than down
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My Mother Taught Me By Audra Coleman QuailBellMagazine.com  My mother taught me
to walk long stretches of beach in silence in search of perfect shells, A Good Yield of Monsters After twelve hours of tacking up electrified fence for those spiteful wendigos that ought to stay put now, Morgan Flint cruised to the lake at the western edge of his farm.
No finer end to the day than racing toward the sun on his ’32 Indian motorbike. The last brush of the day’s heat warmed his cold blood. Blooms of dust rose from the road as he sped along, grown huge by the recent drought that had swept through the great state of Texas. He sneezed twice, then sealed his nose slits shut and breathed through his mouth. Flight to FreedomBy Kayla Rafkin QuailBellMagazine.com  Sadie sprinted out of the rusted creaky minivan before her mother could reach out to her or even speak a soothing word. She felt her way up the staircase, her puffy red eyes blinded by torrential tears, past her father on his way down to congratulate his brave first-grader on a brilliantly successful beginning.
The ObjectorBy Raymond Greiner QuailBellMagazine.com  I gaze from my bedroom window on this glorious spring morning as dew glistens on the green pasture. Crows glean the field, with a loquacious sentinel perched nearby keeping watch.
The Muse / Literature’s Sweetheart She has known many lovers, and many have seen her weep, soft, slow, sudden showers of gentle ire that pour as if there is no end to the earth beneath, and she has grown sick with metaphors and tongues clicking, breaths Transplant Shock I swore I would not be swallowed by unfamiliarity, coated smothered covered swept away by metaphors I did not understand, histories spun out of threads that were not mine and seeped into soil that hardened on my toes, Extraction The sea gaped at me, hollowed out, as if we had leached it dry in the way of the sun, and I stood spitting words at it until the seaweed had more than sand to cling to, Dinner & After Small, stuffed, exploded, but not
yet a turkey two days after Thanksgiving. Satin Stains Underneath my satin stains,
beneath each moonstruck sigh and moan you'll see the ghosts of sugar-rains echoed in sweet monotone: |
The Unreal
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