Salon Zine: All Poetry

By Patrick Mathieu You Who woo For narcissistic Return   Regarding friend As toy To be manipulated   You Competing Solely to prove You’re Better

By Bill Yarrow   sure history has been here before   we the clean-fingered citizens   recognize that even as the clawing quiet gnaws at

By Karen Pittelman Each day you return with terrible news of the world, hoping only to slip home unseen.   And even our locked front

By Allison Albino At last alone, she sinks into the leather chair, rests her head on her palm. Yawns, reaches   for the jug of

By Kushal Poddar I have this anxiety over goldfish bowls filled with potpourri and only potpourri; I fail to scale this feeling. I feel nervous

By Bill Yarrow   I’m complex. You’re complex. We’re all complex. Who gives a shit? Man’s fallen and he can’t get up.   I consulted

By Karen Pittelman Most wild animals will avoid human contact. But the rat longs to come as close as it can.   I knew a

By Karen Pittelman If I would mass instead of ache, assemble not erode,   If this granular body, its weak granular needs could heat to

By Guillermo Filice Castro   on the brink of     diminuendo     with a touch of rage     that voice    

By Seni Seneviratne Let me assume a pose that is suitably uncomfortable. There’s no obvious way to shift me from a life of necessary solitude,

By Nathan McClain there’s a bluebird, asleep, in the pokeweed, and we argue still— what’s pinched in its beak— a thread of red string, perhaps

By Cathy Linh Che In the car, phantom shadows. The moon was a sliver. The sun blared orange over the canyon, and I caught myself

By Stash Hempeck   as we each silently steal forward, stoop to pick up our rock, heft the angular stone up and down in our

By Erika Dreifus with thanks to Steven M. Lowenstein   My father’s parents were Germans, and they were Jews, and they were born long ago,

By Patricia Spears Jones What happens when you lose your taste For living things-a lover’s mouth The scent of her skin; his dark pubic hair

By Mike Stutzman Yes, yes, yes— the sandbags I have stacked, and the sheets of plywood nailed overlapping my storefront heart. I have made ready

By Bernadette McComish I am poured out like water, spilled onto the floor, soaked into wood. A terrible loneliness forces me to love a man

By Brie Huling There was no one here to tell me I was wrong. In taxidermy, you skin the animal first like removing the skin