Poetry

She built a tower for herself. What a waste
of sand, they all thought, and to not lower
her hair down—who waits, in a desert, to be overcome

—not part of me. She makes up games
like Quidditch and plays with me.
Body throws me down

If our gratitude dries parched, we think nothing of        water

If our tongues shrink, we  think of nothing       but water

nothing of water; foresight        shortened

dry, memory of                           these -dry -days

Abattoirs, Abortuaries, and America (HOO-RAH)

Bleach and Beer-Batters, Batman!

Camaro . . . Catchphrases . . . Catachresis . . .

Donkey-sauce; Donkey-sauce; Donkey-sauce

Our 2017 Short Forms Contest Honourable Mention.

Every night, you sleep on my neck.
Contentment seeps through our chakras.

Low dirt path parts Loch Awe as a helix unbinding.
We walk like thistled mutants to Kilchurn ruins.

. . . I found a pair of velvet-coated antlers,
three fingers reaching from an open palm
still throbbing with platelet’s hot breath

Hold a winesap apple to your brow and think of the worst possible outcome.
Or has the worst already happened? How do you define cataclysm?

Are you dead yet?
We're writing letters to our future selves
wanting to know if we can outlive men with beautiful hands.

black pearls on a string
when young lustrous
men dazzle yet frighten us
for many our first encounters a plundering

The tongue is lost—now blood pools
in her mouth. Her maid stops the wound
with a tampon, split down the middle
like some carpenter’s unlucky thumb.

I’ve heard
we only remember
the bad things
that happen to us

This is the part of the story about my first time getting wasted that most don’t hear

A trace of her hair tucked away, his skin
beneath her nails. Each square reminded him
of hopscotch. Her head like a tetherball. What kind

Okay, or
entitled little shits

With her new magic, she makes you
invisible.

We, women, grew hungry, ate
from a pile of unassuming, pleasant rocks. They fell
down our throats, slipped into the blankness of our bodies.

This is a game for girls: putting a hat
on the cat, putting pants on
the cat, drawing a turkey by tracing
her hand. Little girls like cats.

I don’t remember much
of the train, but I remember William

who gave me his engraved
penknife at the station

Pages

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  • Room vol 40.2: Our Rubble, Our Loss
    Room 40.2, Our Rubble, Our Loss
    Edited by Meghan Bell

    In this issue:

    Carleigh Baker, Leslie Beckmann, Isa Benn, Alison Braid, Maggie Burton, Ava C. Cipri, Kayla Czaga, Ruth Daniell, Leanne Dunic, Tanis Franco, Andréa Ledding, Tanya Lyons, Kim McCullough, Amber McMillan, Nav Nagra, Sarah Nakamura, Zehra Naqvi, Annmarie O’Connell, Eva Redamonti, Amanda Rhodenizer, stephanie roberts, Emily Schultz, Idrissa Simmonds, Mallory Tater, Erika Thorkelson, Debbie Urbanski, Susan E. Wadds, Laurelyn Whitt, Irene Wilder

    .