Today’s choice

Previous poems

Violeta Zlatareva

 

 

Money for Candles

The neighbor is a devout woman.
She bakes bread and lights candles,
scolds the noisy children of others,
and dresses in modest clothes.
Everyone in the building fears her.
They believe she can see through skin.
Let someone lie or even laugh,
and she immediately marks them as wicked.
The other day, by the lamp post across the street,
old man Gosho fell—indecently drunk.
And our dear, righteous neighbor
quietly slipped a few dollars from his pocket.

Violeta Zlatareva is a Bulgarian writer and poet. Her books include Whale Academy and Register Misfortunes. Her work has appeared in print and digital anthologies. Her debut novel, Zdr, ko pr?, is forthcoming.

Catherine O’Brien

When all is quiet save for the silky rustling of an autumn breeze
let that love show.

When your patience is darkness-dappled and as weary as an exhausted scholar
let that love show.

Marianne Habeshaw

session in the woods. Someone took a feather
to the hairdressers. Gum cross-sectioned
my cheek; he forgot about removal to kiss.
Had to avoid tree roots, placed us on green.
He mentioned his bullied niece kept reaching
for her blanket; Mr. Smith is quaking regression,

Fergal O’Dwyer

but sunlight streaming in
through impractically curtainless windows;
my skin, made-up in golden light,
looking taught from affluence
and vitamins.

Like they do in films,

Hattie Graham

wait for the witch who comes to pick wild garlic.
Together we can be brave and
pull the green bits from her teeth.
Wandering the glen with
nothing in our pockets, we can search
for the place where fairies still live.
No one will find us there,
not even the old grey bell they ring at tea time.

George Parker

I make broth, feel odd wiping it off your face
moments after swiping through bodies, preferences,
dates. Sunset-orange forget-me-nots mar the napkin cloth