Today’s choice
Previous poems
Suzanne Scarfone
Box of Disquiet
truth be told
part of me has lived
in this box of disquiet
for years and years
let’s see
one still summer’s day
two of my teeth came out
baby teeth
plop plop
ripe pears
falling from my mouth
I gasped and flushed
poked my finger in the
wet gum
and knew I wanted
to plant them
in the backyard garden
behind the wild raspberries
under the clumps
of bee balm
and scary weeds
I had on a pale -yellow organza
dress with buttons up the back
and sprigs of apple blossoms
pink and green
sprinkled on my chest
and a pine velvet ribbon
tied at my waist
and my feet were
round and bare
I pushed
and pushed on the
heavy porch door
until it opened
my arms and legs
falling into the air
rushing through prickly grass
and cat’s pee and
other bits of
smelly life
I flopped on the ground
digging
with my knuckles
a dirt home for my teeth
and then shoved them
in a walnut
cracked open and
painted gold
pressed it into the dirt
and quickly covered it up
soon I was called in to a
lunch of milk
and beef and
beans
the house was quiet
and strange
I washed my hands and
my feet
and sat at the table
lighter and sadder
and thought
outside that window
in a tiny
treasure house
there’s a
a part of me
stuck
in the ground
In her poems, Detroit writer, Suzanne Scarfone paints the visionary moments found in the smallest details of everyday life. She has published widely, produced two music and poetry CD’s, and composed a song cycle entitled Wild and Wordless. Her chapbook Walking in Sound is forthcoming in March 2025.
Richie McCaffery
Going without It’s only when I heave myself out of the bath that I begin to feel wet. It’s only when you come out of the biblical rain I see you’re crying. It’s being apart from you makes me see all the time I thought I was depressed I was...
John-Christopher Johnson
Picking Blackberries My grandfather told me to look under the leaves as many of them were hiding like fugitives. Protected from the spines wearing a coat or thick pullover, he'd nonchalantly part the brambles so that we could enter a channel; a...
Carolyn Oulton
Pandemic The windscreen’s dusty, I forgot to turn off the lights and now the car won’t start. I won’t I assure the man by phone try to hug you when you come. My mother comes forward, I take a few steps back. She cuts the fish and chips in half...
Bojana Stojcic
In My Dream You are Not Cold I’m not shrouded in a blanket of smog as the first of the winter’s heavy pollution hits the city schools don’t shut and there are no warnings for pregnant women (in my dream, there aren’t refineries and power plants to...
Marc Janssen
Postcard from the Spring The place I write from Is small and quiet Minor key. It is a world of infinite beauty Copious possibility Mute exuberance. It is not me, but part of me, The words appear unhappy Crying for joy. I want to illustrate a world...
Edmund Prestwich
Winter Weathers Rain, persistent rain, and the last leaves falling. Voices twittered feebly. What anxious shadows blue tits seemed then, fluttering through the bare trees’ foodbanks of branches. How I wished a luminous green bee-eater,...
Isabelle Thompson
The Romance Languages My mother is learning French in stumbling little phrases. Bonjour, Julien. Bonsoir. Who is Julien? Merci, Julien. Salut, Julien. Bonne nuit. I imagine a man dressed all in blue, drinking a glass of Badoit. ~Bonjour~, Julien,...
Ken Evans
The Passenger Via hand to hand and hand to mouth, they pass a line invisible. Via blast of air, puff of smoke, handshake, warm embrace, the tourist shares a secret, without telling us. Via soft-soled tread in airport lounge,...
Isabelle Kenyon
Yeah that place is a dump Tastes like poverty: wide roads, no one with fuel to ride them. Casinos and bingo- coins like wishbones, dream of swimming in them. Even here, shiny leaflets and theatre lights, the floor cries dust balls, DIY people for...