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 Jan 2015 Bridget
Elissa Gregoire
How can I possibly
capture your likeness?
I cannot put on paper
the radiance of your eyes
the gentleness of your heart
the tenderness of your soul
 Jan 2015 Bridget
Lindsey Durbin
****** all the boys
in the army

win
war is over

still a lesbian
 Jan 2015 Bridget
susan
cat & bird
 Jan 2015 Bridget
susan
the pigeons on my roof
make a soothing sound
between a purr
                    and a hum
   i like it

   the fluttering of their wings
the peck, peck, pecking of their beaks
searching for one more crumb

they keep my cat amused
   he's at the window
black tail swishing
eyes dilated with anticipation
making his small clucking sounds

cat and bird
   inches apart
one anxious for feathers to fly
the other only hoping for one last bit
of bread.
a peaceful observation from my rooftop room
 Jan 2015 Bridget
Mariah
seraphs in the sky,
they come chanting,
a thousand wings beating,
drinking from storms.
the window in the kitchen
flew open, bringing snow
and their shadows,
aligned with their forms.
mars and mercury may think
about this day,
and never tell their secret
to the moon.
the thought bruised my head
purple as the nebulae,
or summer's last sunset.
she twirls around the room,
turning with the earth
on its axis,
as i toss in bed.
enchanted, she reaches
for a hand of mine,
i give her one of venus.
now it is just i,
and dew drops,
beads on a web.
i do not dare disturb,
stir a puddle, or step
in any of the water
so this woman, mysterious,
may drink again.
 Jan 2015 Bridget
Mariah
i bring back charred firewood,
and memories, bleeding
through your mother's eyes.
she stole away to jerusalem
in the middle of the night.
you built a fortress, and like a storm
i was let in, looking for some place
but, you wouldn't believe me
i'm not something to put faith in
i bring men into the house
and you're afraid
i will become part of them
a bundle of violets,
oh, you take me back.
if i knew, i would have found my way
to the road where they grow.
i would breathe in everything you told me
like it didn't feel like suffocating
but the darkness cascades, and there's a gap
in my thoughts where you used to be
and one finding its way through my teeth.
don't you remember,
you pulled voices out of me.
oh, i have been used
more than i've been using.
more than i've been loved.
and no room left for you.
a bundle of sunflowers,
taller than i could ever hope to grow
and you put them in a ***, hope i'm satisfied
i'd have preferred it had you just left them alone.
 Jan 2015 Bridget
Mariah
you're...
 Jan 2015 Bridget
Mariah
you're beauty 'cause i can't escape you
you're time 'cause i can't erase you
and you're dreams 'cause i want to chase you
you're wine 'cause i want to taste you

you're death 'cause i want to dance with you
you're success 'cause i want a chance with you
you're danger 'cause i have a romance with you
you're heat 'cause i can't stand too much of you

you're light 'cause someday you'll blind me
you're it so i dare you to find me
you're chains and i want you to bind me
you're a map and i want you to guide me

i'm the ocean 'cause you can't tell where i end
i'm your lover when all you need is a friend
i'm a letter you forgot to send
i'm nothing, and that is evident

you're no good for me, this i know
all you will ever do is swallow me whole
and get away with a piece of my soul
but, my darling, i still fold

you're sand 'cause i want to sink into you
you're in my head, all i do is think of you
and i don't need to drink to call you
all i see is the month that spring brought you

you're a whisper now, i can barely hear you
and don't think for a moment that i will fear you
this may make you mad, but i no longer endear you
and so, farewell, i will shed no tears for you
 Jan 2015 Bridget
Mariah
you said, "you're not afraid to love
you love kittens, you love rainy weather,
you love shakespeare and sweaters
movies and being kissed
on the tip of your nose
new york city, you love beaches
and the few times it snows
you love crime tv, you love poetry
so why is it that when it comes to me
you feel hesitant?"

i said, "i will tell you, the reason
that i am guarded
yes, i love all of the things
that you listed.
but shakespeare never wrote me a sonnet
and then disappeared, leaving me stranded
new york city may drive me crazy
but it will always be here, you see
poetry may tear me apart
but it won't look me in the eyes as it does
do you have an answer, now, to your satisfaction?
please listen, believe me,
i do not fear rejection.
i fear giving up all of my secrets
only to find you've painted yours
on someone else's skin."
 Jan 2015 Bridget
Kiernan Norman
I picture them in a balmy hallway,
far-corner huddled; quietly, urgently
comparing their notes on ways I have loved.

They'll laugh at lame jokes and avoid eye contact,
each surprised by their own awkwardness.
One of them will quip the term
'eskimo brother'
and immediately wish he hadn't.
The rest will kindly ignore it.
The moment will pass.

They will slowly shed their discomfort.
They will remove their coats.
Sweat will bloom at collars
and trace knotty bumps of spine before
pooling into the space between
boxers and belt.

They won't openly discuss the
strange comradery
that accompanies the lazy river evenings spent drifting down the same mind-
but the tension pulling across
each of their jaws
will announce loud and clear
how frustrating it has
been to be cropped,
tucked in, paper fortune teller folded
and wrapped up into someone else’s idea of poetry.


Casually
then all at once,
they will get started.
Printed pages will uncoil from backpacks,
phones will emerge from pockets
and fingers slightly shaking
will chase the letters
of my name through search engines.

My sticky poems will fan out across floorboards.
They will lower their bodies carefully, not quite kneeling,
(and without mention of the bad knees they happen to share.)
They'll hover above each piece of evidence
and their eyes will crash along titles and memories-
they'll read with raised
eyebrows and pretend as if
they don't already know
each poem, each quick dig, by heart.

When they start claiming
and denying pieces
they will do so lightly
and without judgment.
'This piece is about you and the dry, delicate
tissue-shell of skin
she held out for you after you told
her to shed.
But this piece- this piece is about me
and the messy ointment
that ruined her clothes and
stained her blankets.
A doctor instructed she
apply the ointment to her hands
twice a day to treat
the burns my silence left
across her arms and throat.'

They will share a bit of rage,
A bit of regret.
A bit of shame, perhaps.
They will either miss me intensely
or not at all.
They will either own up
to the poems they begat
or begin refuting.
They don’t want any of
this chilly weight on their soul.
I understand.

They didn’t sign up for this, I know that.
They didn’t set out to rock me,
nor to dig down deep and get to my China.
I was happy to share, to whisper and recite blurry
morning confessions and epiphanies.
I was right behind them running toward the sand dunes,
waving a shovel and pail.
But I can’t feel bad either.
You all must have known:

If you happen to fall for a girl
who writes you must realize
that every smile you put on her face,
every stray hair you’ve pushed back from her eyes,
and quick habit she starts to crave
is fair game.

If a girl who writes happens to fall for you too--
forget it.
You will find echoes of the way your souls fit and fought
together until she has nothing left to feel on the subject;
(and you must be well aware
she's tidal, her feelings are icecaps,
they are melting but will trickle fresh
and renewed for centuries to come.)
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