by IB | Jun 28, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
A woman is scrubbing a grave A woman is scrubbing a grave but the blood remains a woman dreams of a brown beast driven mad and knows it is herself a woman believes the voice in her mind nurses the splinter of glass in her heart a woman may defend herself...
by IB | Jun 27, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
This Thing Called Loss a boy grows tired of dying again and again. i am building him a morgue ...
by IB | Jun 26, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Skyscrapers Raining Paper Again, in one of those dreams where the cityscape is now razed though in a way that’s familiar, in a fugue state, my dream-eye knows: this is how it’s been. The hearts from the heart-shaped hole punch are scattered on the...
by IB | Jun 25, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
The Things We Carry We carry the scars of Section 28 that were stitched into our skin during lunchtimes dodging fists and after-school ambushes behind the bike sheds, where onlookers’ cheers drowned out the blows. We carry the silence of Clause 16...
by IB | Jun 24, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Horticulture for the Transcendental Age It’s the ghost of my mother again, glow-handed, and draped in the hair she cut off before I was born. She is cradling an aspidistra, or what could, indeed, should be and aspidistra, because of course I have no idea...
by IB | Jun 23, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Fugue at 2:17 a.m. The fridge clicks its cold heart. Outside, foxes yowl like their throats are made of gravel and old songs. This hour does not require a name. It is known by its absences: no text reply, no sleep deep enough to soften the inner stammer....
