Tomorrow is too late. I’ve been listeningto the ground lick its lips, laying plans to closeon your heart. To beat the earth, brown batter, to bake afuneral bread. Toleave me hungry. […]
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Tomorrow is too late. I’ve been listeningto the ground lick its lips, laying plans to closeon your heart. To beat the earth, brown batter, to bake afuneral bread. Toleave me hungry. […]
Read moreAsh Evan Lippert is a clay artist and emerging queer poet residing in the South Carolina upstate. Their poetry and fiction center on the exploration of liminal states of consciousness, […]
Read moreIt seems like paradise, but it’s a mirage. No more concrete walkways through the wired treelings, by the serious cyclers, no kids with frisbee dogsNo more lawnmowers and leaf-blowers and […]
Read moreYou are perched on your accustomed bench at the appointed hour, your cigar and the possibilities of another day in hand. The late-morning sun is over your right shoulder, bearing […]
Read moreI I plunged my shovel into bare ground One foot stomping its edge, Tearing dirt like paper with needle-like precision My garden was full; I was careful to ration in […]
Read moreEarth o’ mine green red brown and blue, They ask me which colour you are And laugh when I cannot answer. Could I lie you were one all through? But […]
Read moreThere used to be an edge where the world ended, where ships would tumult down cataracts into nothingness. There are places still, buffers and hallows where the edges become light, […]
Read moreSomeday we might meet,when time has melted in us,our lives look like dried river beds Would you then recognise my face? My face might appear unknown,remote like the rugged terrains […]
Read moreI guess I never told you about Texas, long and sweet in the evening, boiling jelly, about mom’s temperature, stuck in the oven: The best and worst part of the […]
Read morethe dust storms whineagainst the windowas cherry dreamsslide inside.Searching a marigold,a child’s eyes bob tothe tunes of morningas do butterflies rise fromchrysanthemum jars.And so does the coupsurging from a younggirl’s diary […]
Read moreWith Lines from “The Apple Trees at Olema” by Robert Hass Shakes me by the raw, white, backlit flaring of her lightning streaked hand. Fingers whip, burn my veiny branches […]
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