Performance
By Vikki Gemmell
I can feel it. The heat rising from the audience beyond the curtains. The artificial smoke curling up, crawling across the stage, circling my ankles, pulling at me to hurry up. We want to see you. Hurry up and perform for us.
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Skinless Night
By Dylan Gilbert
We’re surrounded by darkness and opium is in the air – just breathing it in, the balmy Manhattan night, creates a floating feeling contrary to dizziness. Backs propped against the asphalt slant at the edge of the roof, merging into the vast skyline. 46th Street bustling below, but me and Leila in solitude with the upper city, lit up and dream-like.
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Sweetwater Seasons
By Ron Koppelberger
Katherine Sunday twisted and turned the handle as the gray bucket dipped lower and lower into the well. She was clothed and sorted by the fortunes of the Sunday legacy, lace edges and tresses of flame.
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Memory of William Stafford
By Keith Moul
(“Follow the golden thread”)
Bill read to us in 1975.
Each poem was more comfortable than the last.
We held our applause as the genial poet
massaged our thoughts for hours.
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It was a relapse…
By Gloria O’Byrne
It was a relapse, replay, redundant, revolting. She (me) sitting there in the diner out in the middle of the desert drinking coffee and eating a muffin, waiting for the laundry a few feet away, he (him, you know the one everyone loves) glaring at me. Like “what the f… are you here for?”
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Charity Box
By Claire Trévien
The fourth wall is glass stained with a nautical spelling of Hervé. That underused V a cross, crimson on the colourless flag; the birds of the sea slither by the ropes crying blue lines.
