Monday, September 29, 2014

New Publications

 The sisters have new publications, Cheryl in  http://canopicjar.com/suites/suite-home-place/snell/
 and Janet in http://edgarallanpoet.com/Edgar_Allan_Poet_2.html
Thanks to the editors, Phil Rice and Apryl Skies. We're delighted to be included in your fine journals.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Drawing and Poem





Sublimation

Her scaffold of fingers guarded his heart
all night long, but she was talisman
of a non-believer. She bargained for time,
and it never let her close her eyes.

He died and she went to live on the couch.
The stone dense with biography slumped
against an indifferent god as she tried
to remember him without sentiment,

according to his laws. When his scent
faded from the sheets, and the disc
of camphor crumbled unlit in the lamp,
his gestures froze in her mind

until they turned tacit, loosing her
into the landscape where she’d last seen him,
spinning between wrong-headed markers
as each star blew its fuse.

The plunging light erased the sky. Planets
unraveled like balls of string, leaving only
a knot of scars on the verge of change,
unreadable as a wayward pulse.

(nominated for the Pushcart)

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Lover's Lane





Through that thrumming summer,
a tug of war waged in a hatchback,
a string of yeses pulled from a no.

The rear view mirrored the obvious--
the wrong choice always lets sorrow enter.
It persists like a hole under the scar’s layered skin.

You tell yourself it’s all over now, you’re healed.
The car’s been up on blocks for years, rusting
 in the lot where you left it.

Arteries of stars smashed in a windshield,
the radio ripped out, wires dangling in your face
like a dare.

You open the door, though you’re in no mood for a ride.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Hope Over Experience



Your voice pooled around my commonsense.
I pulled white silk through my brass ring,
dropping hints at your pigeon-toed feet.
 A pulse jumped under my blue-veined skin
a mosaic of pain breaking out like war.

At the rehearsal, Mother in her flatline calm
bombed our drinks with cherries
and posted a curse above the published banns.
 We sat there glumly, holding back her hands.

Before this devolves into a narrative of hindsight-
your heart grows numb, the kids burn down the halfway house - 
you should know I’ve come prepared: keys jammed
between my knuckles, a map of alternatives on the dash.
 Right beside the rigid Mary. Right under your lucky dice.