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Showing posts from March, 2020

Anna Pavlova by Tiffany Shaw-Diaz

and suddenly her arms became wings
not like the dainty ones given to a finch

but the luxurious ones bestowed to a swan
she was born a human yes I know
but that word is simply ill-fitting
for her veins must be charged
with the breath of angels or the melodies
that drift between each burning star
because I can easily assure you
she was never   fully of this earth
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Tiffany Shaw-Diaz is a Pushcart Prize and Dwarf Stars Award nominee who also works as a professional visual artist. Her poetry has been featured in Modern Haiku, The Heron's Nest, Bones, NHK World Haiku Masters, The Mainichi, and dozens of other publications. Her first chapbook, says the rose, was published by Yavanika Press in 2019.

"Where Do You Want To Eat?" by Ace Boggess

[question asked by Grace Welch]

Book us a table for two on the moon  in a glass-topped prefab,  naked spectacle of stars our bold hors d’oeuvres. It must have oxygen lest these suits get in our way. Order wine like honey. I want to be drunk on the moon with you before salads come, & (green) cheese soup. We will spin on our axes: you a dust devil, I a moon’s moon.

By time our meals arrive, our heads will skip as we find joy in barren, rocky wonderlands. Later, dancing off dessert, 
we shall modify the Earth tides with our feet.
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Ace Boggess is author of five books of poetry, most recently Misadventure (Cyberwit, 2020) and I Have Lost the Art of Dreaming It So (Unsolicited Press, 2018), as well as two novels, including States of Mercy (Alien Buddha Press, 2019). His writing appears in Notre Dame Review, The Laurel Review, River Styx, Rhino, North Dakota Quarterly, and other journals. He received a fellowship from the West Virginia Commission on the Arts and spent five years in a West Virginia pri…

My Last Angel by Sarah James

Other guys had dreadlocks or beards silver-threaded with curls of carnal knowing. His wings were invisible, but his tongue glistened with an A-Z of plant wisdoms and sage witticisms.
Every day, he fed me new leaves, chopped, ground and smoked. The laughter was aphrodisiacal. His protective Acacia promised physic powers. I swallowed all this juice, relishing the future
suggested by paired leaflets; I knew we’d no need of Adam and Eve roots for love. He told me Adders Tongue was healing. I didn’t ask for what, or let drop that I’d tasted snakebite before.
When we jumped from Angelica to Arabic gum, I noticed the missing Apple. I feared his powers were weakening. Bittersweet was our failed attempt at fixing.
Bored now, I grew keen to fast-forward. He’d nothing listed for ‘z’. I didn’t voice my own entry: the ‘zzz’ of instant sleep, leaving us with Yucca –
supposedly for transmutation. My teeth scraped his creamy sauce from the plant’s sword-shaped leaf; it did nothing to quell my hunger.
That night, when he ope…

Walking to Moel Arthur by Sue Finch

We packed the rucksack with more than tissues and water. Tied our boots, checked the laces.
On the way up  we stopped looking at our watches,  let time surround us.
But at lunchtime I worried that if I sat down I wouldn't get up. Where we were going seemed so far. The sun diluted and dipping threatened to leave our muscles cold. We did not really speak  as we ate our separate lunches. Mine seemed bland and I didn’t ask about yours. I only sipped my water  as I studied the path ahead; narrowing and bending,  hiding its end from us.
If we went where we were headed we might not get back.  I couldn't tell if we were yet  halfway to our halfway. I wanted to read your mind, were you for giving up?
I wanted to ask you,
If we turn back, will we ever come here again?
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Sue Finch was born in Kent. She now lives with her wife in North Wales and enjoys exploring the coast. Her first published poem appeared in A New Manchester Alphabet in 2015 whilst studying for her MA with Manchester Metropolitan University. Her …