02 Jun Public Masturbation in Dublin, By Fiona Mulrooney
streaming into the liffey down the street, rivers white and lovely ...
Poetry Tag
02 Jun We Must Be Even, If We Are Here, By Urooj Salar
I never liked country songs until I listened to them, and you never liked me until you met me, so I guess we're even. And every few months, I find flowers molding in my textbooks and in all my drawers are those crushed paper swans, the ones you folded from...
02 Jun I Tried To Speak Chinese, But, By Michelle Zeng
the words fell off my tongue like the filling from a tangbao skin inflections leaking out the sides spilling broth down my chin my throat burned but i swallowed the sound. ...
02 Jun skeletons in the forest, By Larissa Zhong
Remember running from the top of the hill telling stories about skeletons in the forest, Years later you buried yours there and I never knew All I had was a pencil sharpener shaped like a house and a spelling bee trophy that didn’t belong to me What did I do to...
02 Jun what it is, By Audra Crago
It's not so much the full bottles As it is the empty glass. A broken promise Stale and sticky on the crooked coffee table. I’ll never drink whiskey again. It’s not so much the noxious assault in the doorway As it is the broken flag on the mailbox. Even when empty, I pushed...
28 Nov The Bartender’s Moon, By Daniel Green
The bartender starts work now. He doesn’t drive. He walks. I guide: a vanilla glow peeking at winter’s chalk drawings. He goes in through the front door. I go in through the window. The bartender’s lips are dry. He fills craters with liquid. Warm in the stomach. Water on the moon. Drops sift through space, down our cheeks, like...
28 Nov Butter, By Sophie De Frietas
When water melts would it smell like wax Unlikely: Butter. The oil that won’t come off I do not see the birds, only their feet, and even then, only the ones missing talons I’ve been pulling my hair out since I was little, letting it fall from my...
28 Nov dufferin in august, By Aynsley Rae
i’d never had a real coffee until the portuguese bakery on the street corner where concrete peels like dead skin no skateboarding this is toronto is dufferin grove the curb is nicer when it’s made with the opposite intention blankets unfamiliar if everyone is sober...
28 Nov christie in january, By Aynsley Rae
an apple is the doorstop. in lieu of a working lock it is an invitation, a trail of pawprints from stoop to kitchen to hallway and back again does it count as smoking inside? if we pour our lungs to the front porch and the smoke trails slither between the chipped green paint, green skin to...