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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VIII, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I

 
Poetry


We dote over our duplicity
J.D. Mitchell-Lumsden

 

I ask myself to suffocate me with my rag. Clean up after me. Clean the others of me. Exhume all the dead and pile them one on top of the other until it is one colossal ogre sleeping. Me crushed beneath.

Is that what I need. Everyone watching my hard face in their mirrors.

When I put a stone on my head and pluck the flower from my hair it's all one deadly hemorrhage. There are no hemorrhage points.

I know how long a corpse is a body digging trenches in skin. Irrigating children's rooms. Carving out faces. I have ground my bones into shores but go on remaining in my childhood. Still looking at myself as though waiting to return me like an unused gift.

Come closer and stand in front of me so I can see myself. Hold out my heart. Show me where their tongues lacerated it when they ripped it from our chest.

Get rid of it to save us from thirst.

 

 

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