July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
The closet held a row of empty hangers.
Michael met Michelle at the grocery store when they both reached for the same box of Lucky Charms. He let her have the box, and noticed as she walked away how her skirt swayed with
her hips, and her tan thighs.
The perfume lingered in the closet.
After six months of dating, Michelle and Michael moved in together in a small apartment near the college Michelle attended.
The dresser’s top was empty of jewelry and perfume.
On their second anniversary, Michael proposed during a candlelight dinner he’d cooked.
The drawers of the dresser had been cleaned out.
Michael met Sophia at an office party celebrating his landing of a new marketing client. At first she reminded him of Michelle, but soon he realized the distinct difference.
The stripped bed set next to the dresser.
The first time Michael met Sophia at the hotel, the sex was exciting, invigorating; something his marriage lacked.
The button-up shirt lay on the stripped bed.
Over time, being with Sophia was just as comfortable to him as being with Michelle. He didn’t distinguish the two. The excitement was gone, but the sex was still good, like the sex with Michelle. Now both familiar, Michael wondered if something else was missing.
The lipstick stained the collar.
Michael met Megan at a local bar. She was new and exciting. She was more open than Sophia. Sex was amazing. Michael never worried.
The closet held a row of empty hangers.
The perfume lingered in the closet.
The dresser’s top was empty of jewelry and perfume.
The drawers of the dresser had been cleaned out.
The stripped bed set next to the dresser.
The button up shirt lay on the stripped bed.
The lipstick stained the collar.
The color wasn’t hers.
by Angela Spires
Her work has been published in The Brushfire, The Stethoscope, Wildflower Magazine, Mat Black Online Magazine, and Deep South Magazine.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
A carnal flower grows in my garden,
and each night, like clockwork,
when the sun slumbers, giving way to the Afterdark,
I pick it and settle it in my tweed pocket.
I keep it safe through the darkness,
where I disappear into the shadows,
becoming endlessly elegant.
Sitting in the hush of the violet hour.
by Tate Geborkoff
Tate Geborkoff is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America and has worked as a national playwright and poet for over 12 years. His career started in Denver, Colorado and eventually led him to Chicago where he’s been for the past four years.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Sweat tries to swim upwards through the hairs
of a labourer building the statue of the herald
but fails and falls in the soil sucked up by heat,
Vanishes as a struggling animal in quicksand;
Dreams drain and entity turns into fossils as slippers
walk over it.
His weapons are a chisel and spade;
He lifts them to protest but vacuum wailing in the curves
of his muscles make it fall again on the mummified ground;
just to dig, dig the ground for
the Herald’s statue must stand firm
or his existence will be buried under its
falling weight.
Toils will evaporate with the smile of the moon
The dawn will hear sounds again-
sounds of iron striking against rocks.
The air waits to weave those sounds
and strike a twister with them-
Tall enough for the world to see
bold enough to step over mountains
Clear enough to show the waving hands
begging a day out of slavery.
by Sonnet Mondal
Sonnet Mondal is an award winning bestselling Indian English poet and has authored eight books of poetry. His latest book is Diorama of Three Diaries (Authorspress, New Delhi). Sonnet is the pioneer of the 21 line Fusion Sonnet form of Poetry. At present he is the managing editor of The Enchanting Verses Literary Review, Editor of Best Poems Encyclopedia, Poetry Editor of The Abandoned Towers Magazine and the Sub Secretary General of Poetas Del Mundo.
