family dinner night

(https://www.pinterest.com/pin/321796335845627099/)

 

husband hides in kitchen

with our baby son stirring

the same pot for therapy.

 

sauce is sauce is still sauce

bubbling, burning at the edges

 

I am tangoing in our living room

in some other-world with my family,

but what does that word mean: family?

 

not elbows on the table passing

baskets of warm bread, butter

coffee on, television off, talk

heavy with plans for the new year

 

those are thoughts for daydreams.

 

my son drinks milk from a bottle

and I am kneading our livelihood

nearby, adding sprinkles, making shapes

 

only my husband sees, smiles.

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did she (part III)

(http://www.diskursdisko.de/2010/08/jakob-wagner-vertical-woods/)

 

clasp cold hand

over cold hand

over mouth

 

fingers like

branches

search for the

telephone but they are

catching on all the edges

 

and we are

unraveling

unraveling

un

rav

el

ing

.

 

did she (part II)

(http://www.vol.at/allerheiligen-das-leben-neu-feiern-2/4132336)

a pink sun rises and her heart

beats in rhythm with the coffee that is

drip, drip, dripping in the kitchen.

 

she is warm, she is unknowing

still for minutes more, one foot

dangling casually from bed to floor.

 

someone puts the bacon on,

fat cracking fireworks from the stove

while news drones on from the television.

 

did she notice the birds

in their perfect V formation

ripping across a November sky?

 

slip the back door open just

a bit more, the dog, burly as she is

squeezes through and runs, runs, runs.

 

I’d guess they don’t look down,

from way up there it’s all just

noise anyway, it’s all the same

 

all the same.

did she (part I)

(https://www.pexels.com/photo/sunset-sunrise-twilight-grass-11519/)

 

put on the coffee first?

pick up the metal measuring cup,

a twenty-six year old wedding gift

counting in her head:

 

one

 

two

 

three

 

or was the back door cracked

just enough to call her to it?

 

the sun was rising just as

brilliantly as it always does,

 

just as

 

unforgiving

as it always is.

Death is:

(https://weizhugyo.files.wordpress.com/2013/08/tumblr_mrwvv0fmoz1rknybpo2_500.jpg)

a toddler dizzy spinning on the

kitchen tile, yelling out to the abundance of

silence in the room, challenging with the sound of

his own excited voice he is a startling comedic relief

 

death is food: pies, cakes, donuts drowning

in sticky chocolate stuffed with velvet creams,

coffee sizzles nearby like a waking spouse

hoagie slices stacked in potent sculptures

 

death is love

family, friends, acquaintances even

hugging every wall and every worn cushion

thrown about the kitchen, living room, hallway

spilling over to the back porch, front porch

standing in doorways with hands in pockets, listening

 

death is a deep breath

 

pull it all in,

let it all out and

 

somewhere in the distance

a city is crumbling.

please –

 

teach our sons to

open doors, to

ask for permission

 

our daughters to know

NO is not taboo to

roll their shoulders back

and drink in the world

 

my son sleeps on my husband’s

strong chest and somewhere

I am thinking only of my family

not how big your dick is

 

I am someone

I am wife, mother, lover

flesh, blood

tears

 

the hyenas laugh, punch each

others arms, stumble into the

bar with stars in their eyes

 

please,

please do not become the

fathers to our daughters,

to our sons.

The Sandy Crimmins National Prize for Poetry: Celebrating Risk and Invention in Poetry

Philadelphia Stories hosts the annual “Sandy Crimmins National Poetry Prize” to celebrate poets of all backgrounds, experience, and styles.  Thanks to the generous support of Sandy’s family, we are proud to offer the following contest prizes:

● The first-place winning poet will receive a $1,000 cash award for an individual poem, an invitation to an awards event in the Philadelphia area and publication in the Spring issue.
● Three runners up will receive $100 cash awards for individual poems as well as publication in our Spring issue.
● The winning poet and runners up are invited to submit chapbooks to be considered for publication by PS Books. 

● All submitted poems may be selected by the editors for publication in our Spring issue.

 

This year’s judge is Lamont B. Steptoe–poet, publisher, photographer, and Vietnam veteran. 

Open to all poets residing in the U.S

Deadline: November 15, 2016.

$12 reading fee includes a year’s subscription to Philadelphia Stories (4 issues)

Visit PhiladelphiaStories.org for more information and to submit!

Castles Made Of Sand

“Reach for the stars,” they said.

“Follow your dreams,” they said.

I flew too close to the sun.

I burnt my wings.

The fall was fucking glorious.

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I think he’d even ask for you

(http://www.demilked.com/surreal-mississippi-south-photography-iphone-melissa-vincent/)

my sweet, small son with

so much light in his eyes

is busy wrapping small fingers

around everything he shouldn’t

 

and you are not here to call out that

bellowing “yo”, shake your head and

belly laugh, sip a glass of chianti

I’d  snuck next to your plate.

 

I bet he’d stay on your lap just

a bit longer than anyone else’s.

 

I bet you’d have some way of

taming this small beast that

would leave us all wondering, how.

 

I think he’d even ask for you

when his tongue starts forming words.

 

I still think he’ll know to,

somehow, even with you gone –

grandpa, great grandpa, I love you. 

 

 

My Short Dress — A Buick in the Land of Lexus

My beautiful friend Samara reminds us that women can wear whatever the f*ck we want.

My short dress is not an invitation. It’s not a political statement. it’s not feminist; it’s not slutty. I’m not even sure it’s fashionable. My short dress is one of the only dresses I own. I’m not a ‘dresses’ kind of girl. I prefer jeans and rock tees and clothes that align my outside […]

via My Short Dress — A Buick in the Land of Lexus