Breadcrumb #501

EMMA FURMAN

Lickety-split, I was benighted. Sore-
throated, shriveled seeds spilling out
of my wound, red as pomegranate,
as many in number. I was a sliver
of silver shot into a passing duck,
then falling and fished out between still 
beating wings. I was caught in a truck
and corralled by a clown, blind bucking
until the crowd went off, roaring.
I was under the heel, blown out
of the boot bottom. I was a willing gear,
teeth fit superbly into the tines.
I was not a sheep, but future shank.
I was watching through the bars,
looking in at someone else. I’m not the visiting
caroler, singing outside, but the dog of the house
trembling and whining. What am I now?
I'm calling home. In fact, I am the phone.

• • •

Breadcrumb #430

MATTHEW D. ROWE

Broken thoughts piled up.
Heaps of recycled romance.
Your delicate wrists.

The love cell brimming
with sacred love oils.
My mouth speaks.

Little notes.
                                            Smoke memories billowing
                                            from the incinerator.

                                            You exit the same way.
                                            You came.
                                            A tower of complexities.

                                            Swaying, clinging to a concept.
                                            When the plumes of guilt hit
                                            the ozone, we have gone too far.

                                            Your chameleon eyes lock
                                            the service entrance to my insides.
                                            Wrap my hands in cling film.

                                            I hike the heap of hopes
                                            to a rowboat shimmering.
                                            On the beer can pond.

• • •

Breadcrumb #356

MEG HANSEN

 

 

 

Not trying to make sense
                                                Don’t care if he comprehends me
                      I am writing
                                                                                                  This manuscript, these letters
        Addressed to him but meant for me
                                                                       Tied up in tempestuous knots
                                Writing
                                           I am writing myself
Free

• • •

Breadcrumb #338

COOPER WILHELM

If I could reappear an instant later clinging to the ceiling above trouble like a cat I’d still call out
for reassurance. Does this iMessage look infected? Do the poachers know my real name? Are
my sorrows still attached?

How unforgiving we can be. How thrashed. I’ve aligned myself with longing and worn regrets
around me like a sandwich board, and I’m doing that now, but I’ve decided that’s the past.

No more po-ems about fire, no more
parables of loneliness—rest easy,
ugly heart.

Only werewolves now.

Only howling to the kitchen so you rush back
in and do not miss the good parts.

Maybe a fake molar full of stem cells I can crack when under scrutiny so I could feel like I did
something and still retain my tooth. Maybe a kitten’s all I need.

This one time a man in an I Heart Jesus hat asked the kid next to him did I miss my stop

“Huh?”

Did I miss 42nd Street?

“Uh Yeah”

“Why’d you let me sleep?!”

The kid shrugged they didn’t know each other and Jesus Hat looked up
and asked sir (I’m not even 30)
sir (or 29) do you know what stop is next and
I didn’t know where we were together because I was writing this poem and I still am but I’ll stop.

• • •     • • •

Breadcrumb #82

JOANNA C. VALENTE

This is America:
I have a hundred dreams of you
Crashing your car

Into stop signs, off the Verrazano—
Each time your car falls out
Of your control

It always takes longer
Than it should—the longing
Comes too late.

Sometimes I wait all night
For that low, deep growl
In my ears,

That animal understanding
As if I knew it was there
All along—what some call

A woman’s intuition—that
Intention to murder someone
Else’s god

Just for fun—when the R
Finally arrives, I shut my
Mouth & take off

My clothes, forgetting what
We were fighting about
& wave the white flag

of my skin, praying someone
else’s god will bestow
mercy.

• • •