Wandering
Along empty streets
Pondering
With furrowed brow
Grieving
For the life we’re leaving
Behind
For now
Nesting
Investing
In our souls
And each other
Somehow
Listening
Eyes glistening
To melodies
And heartbeats
Heads bowed
"Heads Bowed" by S. Hawn.
The dance we do is like cuts across my thighs and cuts across my breasts
Each breath is poison and each night is full of great unrest
My mind is not my own and my tears smell of gin
I mourn the moment I gave in to the sin
Your words are distant and convenient
When another woman has your interest
They all get tired of the arrogant rants
You are heartbroken and then your words are cunning, and seductive
Then you look at me like a rose in bloom, a rose fit for the plucking
Fuck this, I think, but then comes the caress and the pressing intimacy
Then the world stops, Then the raw ache dominants the room
I, breathless, give myself over to the moment of want, the moment of acceptance and the moment of sin
I am never to be the summoner, or the sorcerer in any situation
I am just to be the weak player in a game that you rewrite every time we play
Age is a number that defines a woman’s happiness
If you are captured by a loving capturer early than the world will provide
If you wait and wonder, you fall victim to the 2am phone call, the lust but not the love
You live in the shadows not to be shown off or known
You exist alone with memories of a life unlived
The mercy of men gives little back but takes everything
The mercy of men ages you until you look ancient at 32
Your outward appearance looks alive but inside the devil has come
Your blood runs cold and your soul knows nothing anymore
You are the walking dead.
"At the Mercy of Men" by Kathryn Malone.
Kathryn Malone is a actress and writer from Fredericton, New Brunswick. She has a B.A. in English and a Concentration in Drama from St. Thomas University.
I top my espresso
with a shot of frothy oat's milk,
getting the right kind of swirl, which I liken to a summer leaf (although no one but me has seen the resemblance), then contemplate the wind in the naked branches
of the birch tree outside the window, and I have to think of your limbs and my limbs entwined last night into the wee hours of the morning, and I know that spring is right around the corner,
another spring with you, my love,
and I have to smile
to myself, not at the vividness
of my imagination when it comes
to the subtleties of barista art,
but simply because I know you can't stop time and we are, you and me, caught in this lovely maelstrom, together,
sweetly deliciously caught, and this is the real high, the buzz, the utter blessedness that fills me as I close my eyes
and take a sip.
"Morning Coffee" by Francis Fernades. Photo Credit: Francis Fernades.
Francis Fernandes grew up in Canada. He studied in Montréal and has a degree in Mathematics. He currently lives in Germany, where he writes and teaches.