Poetry: Ela Thompson’s “The Labyrinth”

Heavy Feather Review

My grandmother’s house was painted a dark, graying eggshell blue
and was very near the southern border of the Catskill Mountains.
After the death of my grandfather                   she sold the house, the barn, the many
acres of field and forest.                   No one was surprised.
Death                                 contaminates the heavy rivers of our bodies
and we must                             move on.
Bound as we are,                       even as a hidden culture,
her family has spread          out from that place—
a daughter in California,
a son in the Carolinas,
a son in Massachusetts,
a daughter in Wyoming
a daughter who never left
a daughter who never settled down—
like seeds on the wind,
only growing shallow roots                                   in acidic soils.
My mother, head of black curls,
once told me that we are like the rhododendron,
which blooms large, bright, and heavy in the woods,
belonging to the far place…

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Stretch-marks-on-the-face-of-spring

Aakriti Kuntal/Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

‘ Time collects in the circle of this wound. Here you shall sprout:
full of color, full of vigor, complete as all light. ‘

Mother, I counted your skin
like the ceaseless motion
of tongue assessing the irregularity of jaw

You are a convex liquid armchair
rocking back and forth
time squeezing your lap
Your seeking hands are like lizards,
stagnant, then running
Cerulean eyes, cheeks of crepe
Palm trees circling
the diaphragm
to form
my pillow of orange lights

You said through feverishly gray lips
that spring is here
that a flower has birthed in your womb,
water, turquoise pools
Mediterranean swirls and violet streams
That you have solved
the anomaly of friction
And now you are afloat
in a vacuum
long, large
and quieter every second

I watched through umbilical
blinds and colloidal irises
Meteors in your baked body
I watched you detonate
You are a quark
Motionless

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Take Your Heart Back

Allie/Dances With Tricksters

Dances with Tricksters

The time I called you a monster, you said I spang from the heart of Lucifer, your own black heart, and you wrapped your claws around me like a snake and squeezed.  You held my  neck in vise hands and I expected a snap, instead I got a biting kiss, and fuck me but I thought that was love – the threat of pain but pleasure, I was so used to pain, I begged for scraps from a decaying god.

I’ve lain in the arms of corpses.  I’ve kissed ribs and licked phalanges and black rot from you rings my inner corners.  You’re writhing in worms and all I can ask is why, why did you pick me, there are billions of girls, so many prettier and wittier prey to stalk.  Why are your siren eyes my first memory, the first words I remember ever spoken to me “I love…

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