How to Lament on a Tuesday at a Coffee Shop at 16:23 PST

How to lament on a Tuesday at a coffee shop at 16:23 PDT by Jarred Mercer I saw scenes of war that made me,held the dying child and bleeding mother,watched the man who never lived without shaking shake untilhe didn’t live. I knowthe sea’s creatures are strangled by our greedsmell the hellfire of dry leaves stripped from naked trees butmy daughter’s hugs sink in like rain in soil likesomething new will grow. I know the forcibly displaced with no homesee the erosion of my coastlinetouch the fear of generations butseals play like sea-puppies chasingtheir tales, bouncing their bellies onbulbous boulders at the same shore shaking offdespair into the deep and as I do the dishes the sun blushescherry and plum behind the house andwithout purpose laughter tickles our tongues andrattles our chest and on any given day a stranger’s smilecan save a life and sex can be good notjust a weapon and white veronicas bloom evenafter winter and someone somewhereis starting to sing. We weep on knees for centuries to learn lamentis the shape of hope. Poetry Home Art by Kateryna Bortsova

when i say my father is homeless, i mean:

when I say my father is homeless, I mean: by Harley Chapman a funhouse version of himself laughing,an eclipse where his mouth should be. so smart. Just like him. he fell off the roof one Christmas& kept on falling. The snow embraced himlike the open sea swallows a sinking ship. dad vs. the State of California. I am talking about criminalities.I am talking about the act of committing a crimeas inseparable from being a criminal. my face is a long stretch of unshavenyears, stacked neatly on the tile. each implosion is entirely my fault(it is not my faultbut it is, still, entirely my fault). a portrait of god in his sunhat, shears poisedbefore an unsuspecting shoot of green. I no longer wish to be called honey,shrink from your touch. my story is changing. I cannot rememberwhat is real & what is just a name. fuck the government. Fuck the law,the police, the purse-clutchers,& every asshole with a brand-new car. an alternative phrasefor airing your dirty laundry isI have nowhere left to hide. I made a mess of it, drank myself stupid& rode that white line like a bronc. the record is stuck. A scratchy repeat:just like him. each year feels more & more like a dare. shame is a debt unpayable. Please,don’t make me explain. Poetry Home Art by Belle Dorcas

Girlhood Sonnet

Girlhood Sonnet by Sophia Ivey I lost my girlhood when my brother ripped out my first baby tooth. I can still rummage through my mother’s attic to find the VHS tape of him holding the small bleeding thing with his hands as if it were a rock bass he had just caught down at Lake Apopka. I told my palm reader this and she insisted I find all of my baby teeth and burn them to ash. I don’t. I keep them in my nightstand, though, most nights I am eager to flick my lighter in the little girl’s direction, burn each tooth to ash, bury each crumb into the dirt so I will not be reminded of things that used to be mine to hold. It would be easier, I know, but instead, I am determined to suck on each tooth like a cherry sour until it is sweet enough for me to spit out. One day, when I am done, I will rest them on my kitchen windowsill. Dry them by the wishbones I save. Like a stuffed rock bass hung on a living room wall I will find pride in preserving a slaughtered thing. Poetry Home Art by k kuulz

Gub Dog

Gub Dog by Addy Gravatte Dedicated to the Holy Body of Saint Margery Kempe I want my real red blood on that faux pink fur But then it’d be burgundy— I’m too putrid for today Nobody don’t avoid me! Before you are very stupid and then you are smart I have always been a witch  And I have always been obliged To tell them I am no   When I was young I’d get a creature in my stomach And close my eyes I’d know I’d see My flesh, contracting to its slimmest space, Then expanding to its largest possibly —rapidly contracting, ‘twas gut-stuck between the two Until I remembered my tangible body It was proto-sexual for me! I am gross, oh I am a gross thing. Poetry Home Art by James Kelly Quigley

Šljivovica

Šljivovica by Celeste Colarič-Gonzales In the native lands    of the ghosts / who formed me / beyond the building  and unbuilding / of bone borders, bloodying / rivers of language / and names  eroding mountains / of faces and dirt, dispersing / across time and space / splintering / a body region / into dozens of / organs, appendages, nations / for all my ancestors lacked / their dirt homed / more ocean-hills of plums / than they could eat / so they drank them / across distinct lands and dialects / they harvested, summer through fall / fermented, through winter / palmed orbs of sunset / mauve-purple, crimson-gold / pulpy flesh falling in plumps / from the knuckle bones and nail-beds / of my ghost’s hands / dripping in red, sour-bitter juice / fingers working small globes / to their stone-cores / each of their parts / a territory divided / made useful    to the whole / seed, skin, and sweet blood / no additive needed / but time   their sacrificial bodies / sufficient / in yeast and sugar / for the wild   of their own / nature Poetry Home Art by GJ Gillespie