Today’s choice
Previous poems
Peter Leight
Instead of Dying I’m Taking a Trip
to Kansas
where the light appears
as if walking through a gate
in the air
opening the gate
and walking in
together with eleven
varieties of sunflowers
including the common one
you don’t need
to sprinkle the seed
in Kansas
domestic animals
outnumber the rest
the meadowlark has a dark V
on its yellow breast
for victory
or victim
it’s a mistake to assume
that everything is independent
I’m closing my mouth
to keep out the air
not even taking the ribbon
out of my hair
in Kansas
there’s a grinder
for everything
that needs to be ground
when relationships end
there’s nothing to replace them
in Kansas you go
to the stars with difficulties
relationships end
when there’s nothing
to continue
right now
I’m turning off the ringer
on my phone
it’s not a refuge
if I’m not gone
nobody minds
if I stay a little longer
Peter Leight has previously published poems in Paris Review, AGNI, Beloit Poetry Review, Raritan, Matter, and other magazines.
Iris Anne Lewis
The track leads through thickets, threaded with eyes.
Elusive scraps of dreams, they gleam, flicker out.
Antonia Kearton
On my son’s desk lies
the periodic table of the elements.
I look. Amongst the arcane names
I recognise, easy as breathing,
carbon, oxygen, gold, beloved of kings.
Elizabeth Loudon
The first three days of war
have a surprising holiday feel.
No deadlines, just the giddy gasp of shock.
Ordinary life continues.
Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad
A lacquer table, gloss under fingertips. A raised stage with dark linen. A young woman smiles with her hand-held harp, its nine strings glistening. The room swells with the cadence of her pearly notes. Beneath the pendant lights—a vision of serenity.
Pratibha Castle
Conscience
as taught her by the nuns was a bridle
on a young girl’s tongue
K. S. Moore
Teenage years
everything begins
it never ends
Jim Murdoch
I didn’t know what to do with all my dad’s love
so, I minded it for him fully intending to give it back one day.
Finola Scott
Such a knife, a real Et Tu Brute number. Bone handled, incisive. Decades of marriage
had whetted the blade to feather lean. Anniversaries marked in metal.
Sarah James/Leavesley
My mother’s knife made the first cuts –
she removed my fertile light bulbs,
then stuffed my womb with shredded tissues.
