Sufia Khatoon paints

Alyssa Trivett writes

Fifth Strike

I didn't keep track.

It kept track of itself.

Around the go-kart track of

outbursts and missed 

turn signal clicks.

I may have never wanted this,

yet I signed my own permission slip.

And remembered in the end

to let the doubts of the situation

float and head into a pile of rubble

in some unnamed part of the world

no one will have to worry about

or record on an unwinded 

cassette tape left in a pool 

of ice cream in a parking lot.

Let it whirl.

I take my name off your list

and begin

to circle your deceptive words

in a crossword puzzle

though most of them are left

until after the fact.

As a matter of fact.

you can do that for yourself,

from now on, friend.

 

You Will Never Get Me -- Guido Crepax

Kevin M. Hibshman writes

notes on two deaths that remain impacting

we had such wonderful hiding places

who will ever remember them now that you have made it to the final hiding place?

adventure was a state of mind

we courted an innocence until separated and it shattered like glass in a broken picture frame

The Broken Frame -- Yanko Tsvetkov

David Boski writes

Crying Game

I remember my sister saying:

‘David never cries, it’s so weird’

after our father’s funeral—

I stood there watching others

do just that: 

her

my mother 

my cousins

my aunt

his friends 

and 

strangers 

who I didn’t know

or

recognize 

as I fought back

my own

pushing those feelings

deep down

into my guts

hoping that’s where

they’d stay.

I’ve never felt comfortable

crying in front of other people

and even though I’ve done it before—

it’s a sight rarely seen.

It usually happens when I’m alone

and my insides spontaneously combust—

as I stand in the shower; a place I can’t feel my tears.

Sad Shower in New York -- Tracey Emin