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Showing posts from September, 2020

Tobi Alfier

Litany

I am mercy’s wayward apprentice.
I am the dubious truant of grace.
I kneel at the Stations of the Cross,
then climb through the shreds of a fading downpour.
I am the late sun that flames through a window.
I am a cityscape of wind through the alleys.
I am a desert highway fringed by meadows
where fields and blossoms unfold into radiance.
I am a clock that needs to be wound.
I am a cello that plays in the evenings,
ushers in nightfall’s infallible silence,
and the sweet scent of creosote in the pitch dark.
I am a love you may almost remember,
your mind lazing loose in imaginary elsewheres.
There is no amnesty for ancient sorrows,
I am the galleon, sinking, still vanishing.

Winter Tourist

Once, in another winter, in a village
by a seaside with different accents
than mine, waves crash dark against
the shore and over the breakwater,
a woman in a red coat hurries through
her realm of kith and kin:

fishermen just docked—nets and boxes
brim with still moving catches for pubs
and homes, …

Kevin Ridgeway

The Last Time I Saw My Father's Face


My father was bearded and zoned out on psychiatric medication he could not pronounce behind the glass from us in county jail, where he awaited trial. He and my mother argued over why he did what he did until he could only slur insane gibberish. The guards treated us so much like shit we could still smell it on the drive home, when we both agreed never to visit my father in jail or prison again. Neither of my parents were there when I got locked up in the same madhouse that swallowed my father whole, but it choked on me and spit me out in a demented miracle no one prayed for but me.


Kevin Ridgeway is the author of Too Young to Know (Stubborn Mule Press) and nine chapbooks of poetry including Grandma Goes to Rehab (Analog Submission Press, UK). His work can recently be found in Slipstream, Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, Plainsongs, San Pedro River Review, The Cape Rock, Trailer Park Quarterly, Main Street Rag, Cultural Weekly and The American Journal of Poetry, among o…

Stephen J. Golds

4:48 In The Morning R.I.P Sarah Kane
It arrives
like a yellow taxi swerving into a parking lot with warped flickers in the windshield.
An insect crawling mindlessly up a concrete wall with five legs and the sixth dragging broken behind it.
The small stone trapped in between the tread on the worn soles of sneakers that are too tight.
The clerk behind the counter of the liquor store with the eyes like broken street lamps and a smile like a street fight.
The doctor in a Christmas sweater with a handful of pills but a mouth with no answers.
An empty coat on a hanger hung in a darkened window in the apartment building across the empty street.
A broken umbrella, it still seeps in, soaks and dampens these fragile fabrics at 4:48 in the morning.

Stephen J. Golds was born in London, U.K, but has lived in Japan for most of his adult life. He enjoys spending time with his daughters, reading books, traveling, boxing and listening to old Soul LPs. Glamour Girl Gone his debut novel will be released by C…