touka

touka Oct 2021

hook

little footsteps, falling fast
my heart grieves in turn, God

my nerves are shot

threading
through the seats
of that little white chapel

sewing
sinew and bone;
thread alone, thread alone

so he sticks a hand
into the border fires
wets the fray of running wires

with his tongue

swinging, spirit
spirit of inquiry –
then onto his knees
in that little white chapel

stopped as a pendulum

swung onto the asphault
arrested, there, in time

God,

have mercy

grace even a hair—

where is my son?
he asks

dead in the back
of a Mayberry ambulance
stopped as a pendulum
where did you wander to,
where did you come from

God

there,

staring

cries him a tear of Pentecost

where his breath tarries
til' he wakes with a start

where is my son?
think love comes with little cost

little footsteps, falling fast
sleeping like a dead leaf

I make sure he's still breathing

a breath in, a breath out

that licks the flame, makes it weak
so I sleep with eyes as wide as saucers
in fear the candle might be brief
come in, my little selfishness—

don't take him away from me‎‎ ‎

so further go these little foxes
little footsteps, falling fast
to tear and spoil up the vine

a breath in, a breath out

smoking this wet cigarette
threading
through the seats
of that little white chapel

a breath in, a breath

touka Oct 2021

925

her sweater was white.

white.

I go in, I come out

I go in, I come out, I go in —

white,

white,

white,

white,

red,

red,

red,

red,

black,

black,

black,

black

my hands smell like
solvents and

her sweater

was white

I go out to smoke
go into the egress
between these two shops
make my way into that little artery

the vein that splits open for air,
like mine for love
onto the path that opens like a mouth
just to consume

because people walk all around
sprawling about,
in and out of stores
carrying their crumbs and things
and it could be like
I'm on the promontory that overlooks it all, on the infinity of the outside edge, the border of glass, and they are so small,
such that they're like ants,
only I'm the ant

and they are not small at all

and her sweater

was
white

so why is it red?

was it always red?

I go out, I come in
I come out, and go in
take the whole cigarette in one long, torn up draw
and the next time I see her, her sweater is black

was it always black?

so I do it again

I wait

eye the clock

a group of five twelve times, thats a minute, but five times twelve times for sixty times to be nine and every hand just moves along, and

I take another smoke break
and my veins are curling in on themselves because
I go in

and her sweater

is red

and I can't stand it because the faucet in the bathroom is burning hot
no matter how far I tilt it to blue
but the metal is so cold against my palm

and the broom makes this terrible sound on the floor, like it's groaning to stop
and every time I look away and look back again, her sweater is

white,

white,

white,

white,

red,

red,

red,

red,

black,

black,

black,

black

and it's not the flickering light above me
that ticks on and on like the clock because
we're some one hundred paces apart
and whether she's in the sun of the storefront
or under the cold fluorescent bulbs
the color of her sweater doesn't swap, I realise, unless I blink

so I don't blink when she catches my gaze
and I don't blink when I wrap up my shift alone
and I don't blink when she's saying "good evening,"

and I don't blink the whole way home

Oct 2021

Tyler

upset stomach

i swallow your pride
and gag

touka Oct 2021

wrinkle *TW*

I know I'll die in the interstice
in the space between your teeth

in that long, life-snuffing gap
between your breath and your next words

in that painful preterition

if this is where your scruple stops you
then omission is your sword

nothing more than a maneuver
to leave yourself a remnant
at each margin of the bed you ***** me in

Oct 2021

John Edward Smallshaw

Poem 38

I retire into the arms of a chair
there is nothing that holds me
except for gravity.

I take a book but cannot see to look
at the written word
I am not stirred by sound,
by sight nor touch,

what is left is nothing and
not much I can do about it
but sit and be held
in the arms of a chair and
wait.

touka Sep 2021

de vivre

his thrill against the widow's cord;

snakes his fingers in the web

eight aching, crawling branches

where his hands have met her legs

six sick fingers on the mend

I let the wind come

and do nothing about it

I let the wind come,

and do nothing about it