ancient marble frames
wide cobblestone,
hills and trees
as if
a painting
enters life—
pink parasols twirl
in the breeze
and passers-by stroll on
past ice cream vendors peach parfait,
a gypsy violinist plays
on, as if
the song cannot end,
as if
this promenade
exists beyond
September Sunday’s mid-day sun.
Loukia M. Janavaras is from Minneapolis, MN but has been living in Athens, Greece for the past 10 years. Although she enjoys writing, it is never a choice.
the moon is some madness
those curl in
popping stars on the ceiling,
I burst apart stray thoughts
you keep the lights on
and drink in bed
praying the wolves will dissever
for they await at the blank/space
erasing histories from a page
if you lose my ember in your heart,
I cannot resuscitate its truth
we’ll wake in the morning,
perennial prey for the cruel
you ascend
to a vortex in the fog
a half mast flag
towers the ashes
spread through Sutro Baths
the distant vocal of an engine
spinning in the sky,
spins in your direction
in an azure haze,
the clouds ruminate
with diamonds and stars
as you disappear in the
foreground
the weight of sleep breaks snow
a coat of paint
your face veiled white
in the thaw, a crown molds
tattooed by light,
your frozen river sweats
the brim of a crescent,
damned in fire,
glows technicolor
above vernal heights and broken bones
as the weight of sleep breaks snow
the fog burns off
shadows trapped in glass
a house on stilts creaks like a crate
six feet above
shark teeth skimming the bay
the bridge is a woman
iron and red,
bearing carriers into the Northwest
snowy plovers skirt
under a blue lunette
as you and I slowly forget
our crimes on the land’s end
the sun was a dying fire on the horizon
when wrath has bled
the feeling arrives
I cannot displace you,
frosted strife,
you divide my loves with a
jealous ire
no soul escapes your
spinning plates,
bitter spades
(her dress is draggled and I coil like a wounded fist)
a victor with still hands,
you carry me
downwards
away from her light
Matt Hemmerich is a writer living in San Francisco’s Sunset District. He is currently working on a poetry chapbook and recording an EP.
sunlight streamed
through cobwebs
to illuminate
decaying memories
there was a time
when love meant
back massages when I was tired
and making fun
of all the hair on his arms
just to apologize
in fluttered lashes
my hand
reached through years
just to find his
but sepia crawls over
all of the colors
now when our eyes meet
he mutes the connection,
draining me wordlessly
my smiles are forced
as I hide my teeth
and try not to blink
our history in code
moonlight sits
behind window glass
as if waiting for
permission to come in
all sounds fold & flatten—
creased into static
and my tongue feels
too heavy to lift when it
tries to say that you
mean nothing to me
