Category - Poetry

David Ishaya Osu Literature Poetry

Ripening

David Ishaya Osu both tomorrow and the tomato will ripen into a song / no song is through with your body cry outside your robe will know why we laugh the boy and his ball lead inside, too i am too big for a ghost everyone faces the mirror and then says no, no, no   David Ishaya Osu is a poet...

Jim Nason Literature Poetry Queer Isolation in a Pandemic

Seven Thirty P.M.

Jim Nason And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise! The Whos would start singing! They’d sing! And they’d sing! And they’d SING! —Doctor Seuss From balcony and rooftop, from sidewalks and cars— bicycle and dinner bells, pot against pan, spoon against glass, clapping...

Katherine Abbass Literature Poetry Queer Isolation in a Pandemic

Most Hoaxes

Katherine Abbass My roommate is a pilot; we watch the sky for signs of life. On warm days we sit out on the patio and stare at the stucco building beside us, our neighbour walking her iguana on the handrail, giving us a wave, a cigarette dangling from her winter lips, dry and scaly as her pet. My...

Cecilia Stuart Literature Poetry

E

(For mobile devices, this poem is best read in orientation / landscape screen mode.) Cecilia Stuart I  put  something  down,  you pick it up.  I write the letter  e  and  you  pick   it  up.  You  go  on  waiting, waiting.  I   draw   a   barrier  around   myself. ...

Literature Lucas Crawford Poetry Queer Isolation in a Pandemic

Nose Job

Lucas Crawford The swab isn’t sublingual after-all so for now my secret cure remains safe. He counted to three and went up my nose with a stick longer than the smallest dildo that my Montreal landlord stole. Great. Now I have a nasal fetish. Dare you to dig deeper than him and risk reaching the...

Literature Poetry Tawahum Bige

Bones Gather

Tawahum Bige after Eve Joseph nipawatan wecîpweyânâhk                 nipihtos-mihko ewîkiyân tahtwayak     ekwa âyiman I’m used to battlefield the way cannons fire and ancestors’ bones gather, just to shatter again. Dene rising are more story than poem— our throats...

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