We’re looking down on Wayne’s basement. Only that’s not Wayne’s basement. Isn’t that weird?
Garth, that was a Haiku!
I will eventually purge you
from my mind,
from the folds of my eyelids.
I will eventually lose track
of how little you cared
to tell me what was going on
in your head.
I hope it comes soon,
the chill on my skin
instead of the warmth I felt under your callused palm
on the thick of my thigh.
It still lingers
when I’m simply hearing someone speak your name.
Dammit I will at some point no longer remember
the embarrassment of that first night
when I uttered “sure” too quickly
I wouldn’t have any of these memories to rid myself of.
You still hold onto me,
I know you do,
and so I will keep you, tucked away,
in a safer place
other than the notable corner of my mind
Hello, hidden pain. So strange
how you resemble my old face.
It’s National Poetry Month and it’s also National Library Week and to celebrate, here’s a Haiku as a #LibraryLoveLetter!
Photo credit: Cambridge. King’s College Library (Interior) Collection: A. D. White Architectural Photographs, Cornell University Library Accession Number: 15/5/3090.01099 Title: Cambridge. King’s College Library
Floor to Ceiling
We laid on the floor
staring at the ceiling
as the room teemed with ease
and comfort, comfortable electricity
reserved for the very beginning of things.
And you mentioned the crack
in the corner
where the west wall met the north.
Funny, I never realized,
and you smiled
so very proudly
just for noticing what I had not.
And it was either 5 minutes
or 3 hours that we laid there
before wrenching ourselves
away from the lovely limbo
that preceded the implosion.
And now I am doomed to a fate
of recalling your words and your hair
when I lay horizontal
beneath anyplace or anyone
and see a crack.
In photographs I never look as beautiful and seriousas I do in my own mirror.
Somewhere is a job with the description
does whatever she wants when she wants to
and that’s the jobI want.
I treat my friends like diaries.
Some nights I come home just to see
Happy National Poetry Month! Here’s a new poem.
Mayonnaise, olive oil, beer, pickle juice
Become a veritable feast for our hair,
Chapped by the afternoon heat.
An unacknowledged preview
Of the future wrinkles.
Etchings of our sun worshipping past
We would bemoan in ten, twenty, thirty years.
In the uniform of terra cotta soldiers -
(And the same shade of earthy brown) -
We sunbathe in the garden
Head tipped back in the basement bathroom,
Washing the mixture into the drain,
It shimmies through the pipes below the house.
And standing guard by the leaky pipe,
The dog will lap up the diluted solution
Wag his way upstairs
And assault us with kisses.
Ambrosio for Dry Hair ~ Rachel Troy
Need inspiration for our National Poetry Month poetry contest (#NPMRWC14)?
YARN staffer Rachel wrote this poem using:
Words from “I Could Drown You” (http://yareview.net/2013/04/i-could-drown-you/): pickle, chapped, afternoon, wrinkles, garden, basement, bathroom,drain, pipes, leaky
Have you submitted yet?
will receive an editors’ bundle composed of our Fiction Editor Diana Renn’s upcoming YA mystery “Latitude Zero,” our Editor Kerri Majors’s writing memoir “This Is Not a Writing Manual,” and John Corey Whaley’s “Noggin“! Plus s/he’ll be given the opportunity to have MORE of his/her fiction/nonfiction/poetry published on YARN!
YOU HAVE 5 DAYS LEFT!
originally published in March 2013 issue of Toasted Cheese
An homage to William Burroughs, who accidentally shot his wife.
The aquamarine sky ripples in windows.
Between South Campus and North Campus I sit
with Sarah and talk about blue paint
and iambic pentameter. “Is this the…
I am mad.
I don’t know
when the day ends or starts.
All my friends
are my enemies as well.
I have no love to give
and no time to think.
My soul is empty.
I wonder if some cigars
would make me feel alive.
Lost between lies
and the truth.
Can’t remember what I wanted.
The sirens will come tonight,
maybe they’ll take me
far away from here.
I pray they will.
Ode to Late Night French Fries
Thank you late night French Fries
You are sticks of dynamite
Exploding deliciousness down to my core
I should have ordered an extra large
Let the over-oiled smoldering tenderness
of your each and every become one with me
I wish I could throw you into the polar waste
and see my fortress of salt crystals rise and glisten
Long, Hard Rain
Now will there be cat poems??
There have always been
cat poems They were cat poems
before I knew about it All along,
such large and small cats
inside my poetry, behaving AND NOT
EVEN ONCE did they disturb me
They kept to themselves
during the time it took
for me to…