Poetry by Jacquie Burckley in the style of Olivia Clare:
Mean Soup
He stuffed her mouth sand,
so our base will be coconut milk.
His words sizzled like baking soda,
so we’ll add tomatoes for the acid.
He got Elroy and James to help,
so we’ll throw in multicolored peppers,
halved, deveined, and sliced thin.
Patience is key and so is self control,
so it sits on medium heat, uncovered
for forty five minutes.
Her fist reached up to his chin just
like I taught her (don’t tell her father),
so I gave her the option of habañero or
ghost pepper.
She chose both.
Overgrazing
I was twelve when my Baba
came running down the hill, chased
by debris and mineral like ink
on we paper. Boarding up the farm,
the Scottsdale sun haloed his head,
the dust unsettling.
When we ate, we used tarps.
Flush out your eyes.
Use a needle for your fingernails.
Did you refill you’re canteen?
Lock your windows
or else the curtains will turn yellow.
Read a book. Read another one.
When we ate, someone died.
Comorbid Insomnia
For the
daylight had
retreated behind
the belfry, the bell
eclipsing the star. Still
he paces a terrifying speed
and the cobbler’s Oxfords had
already worn through and his
cloche is discolored with
sweat and angst and
still he tries to
outrun the sun.
Poetry by Chrissy Schreiber in the style of Lisa Russ Spaar:
911
I wake to the sound of screams,
the walls betraying more than they should.
My brain floods, tides of images
of her head, her head, her head.
Suddenly live-wire, eyes buggling,
howling pipes and chords. Unremitting sound.
She asked who I needed.
What a strange question, not what
but who, barn owl
loftily gazing into soul.
I almost say, “God,”
but perhaps too far. Police?
Unstick the stuck,
loudly pounding away.
Spill, Swallow
A few more heartbeats would be
thick, blue, and nectared,
like the aroma of greed,
traces of smoke lacing
my tongue. This tongue that
spills stories (tell me a truth) –
but also swallows secrets (tell me a lie).
This doesn’t belong, give it back.
A shiver that fizzles up my spine, sizzles on
my brain and burns my throat,
sharp and tanging. I trace your scars
with a dagger and ponder
while I bare my own:
dig down, down to bone.
Fresh Start
For a system-wide reset,
push the buttons in perfect sequence,
two sisters and their cousin on the flip.
Say farewell to the flaws
settled in the dells of Saturn,
carved into the seams of self.
Steel cables slit fingerprints
where poisonous views bleed out,
and you devour them, your lips
stained red with love and hate,
knowing not what to feel,
suffering a briny ordeal,
but all the same, feeling
nothing at all, nothing real.
(Read) Between the Vines 