#finalpoems / [?]

Brother

I want my words to pierce your skin
because they never left an impression on you.
I want you to see the madness within me and know
that you had some part in this.
Did you honestly think that I would be undamaged by your cruelty?
I want to blame you,
blame you for not being able to find love
for not having self-worth.
God, I want to hurt you the way you hurt me.

It’s impossible.
You never will be hurt by me.
I love you.
I hate myself because I love you.
I wish I could just let it be, but you are my brother.
The person who should have always been there.
But you wouldn’t forget the time I lied.
Wouldn’t forgive my childhood transgressions.
You made yourself into what you are and took part in my own formation.
Our relationship summed up in a picture.

You, standing above me,
me, unhappy on the ground.
You, a golf club in your hand raised high above your head,
me, nearly crying because
everything comes so easy to you and I stumble into failure.
I want to blame you. I can’t.

Kate R: Living and exploring in Missouri, USA I spend my free time writing, exploring with my friends, and playing Bocce Ball with my family. I recently had a near death experience which left me wanting more out of life and spurred me to get my work out there. This is my first publication and I look forward to many more.

#finalpoems / [?]

The Wetness of My Pillow

Every time others began the chitchat, the piss race between kids,
Gracefully I put a smile as if I had any idea.
Ohhh –I had them, fully in flesh and bones, walking and talking,
But not existing for me –in my world.
Feeling of an unending need. There they were in chock-full of quietness,
Standing as a wall against me. Don´t stare at me, see me –the still cries don´t bother,
I am used to that.
Nights pass by and my pillow is still not dry.
Enough, I say, and I question whether they will ever transform into
My innermost delusions.
Holes in my bones, aching every time I run towards…
HOLD MY HAND, AND WALK BY ME.
–NO!
You´re alone by yourself.
Safety net I never had, the fish I was in the vast ocean of absence,
Swimming against the mainstream school of fish. No doubt I ever grow to be like others,
Full with memories happy enough for me but not for them.
Never allowing myself to show the emerald blood flows through my heart,
Keep wrapping itself in the gauze of denial, dripping continuously to my pillow.
Longing of any memory fills my sad void, and like a small child who wets the bed,
I will wet my pillow tonight, chasing them in my dreams, waiting for a time they need me
Just like I did and still do.

27 year old Yenigün Batu was born in Istanbul, Turkey. Everything started with her telling a made up story to her sister, Yazgülü why she was not allowed to play with Yenigün ́s toys. From then on, the storyteller awakened in Yenigün. She created stories throughout her whole life but she was not able to share them with anyone for a long time. This is an opportunity she starves for a really long time. Last year, she obtained a Master ́s Degree in English and American Studies. Her thesis deals with the role of fate and gods in A Song of Ice and Fire series by George R. R. Martin. She has interests not only in literature and culture but also in philosophy and theology. Currently, she is searching for an answer to her existence and chasing her Muse.

#finalpoems / [?]

I love you.
You are the One.

Margarita Serafimova was shortlisted for the Montreal International Poetry Prize 2017, Summer Literary Seminars 2018 Poetry Contest, and the University Centre Grimsby International Literary Prize 2018; long-listed for the Erbacce Press Poetry Prize 2018 and the Red Wheelbarrow 2018 Prize, and nominated for Best of the Net 2018. She has three collections in Bulgarian. Her work appears in Agenda Poetry, London Grip, Trafika Europe, European Literature Network, The Journal, A-Minor, Waxwing, Orbis, Nixes Mate, StepAway, Ink, Sweat and Tears, HeadStuff, Minor Literatures, Writing Disorder, Birds We Piled Loosely, Orbis, Chronogram, Noble/ Gas, Origins, miller’s pond, Obra/ Artifact, Blue Mountain Review, Califragile, TAYO, Shot Glass, Opiate, Poetic Diversity, Pure Slush, Harbinger Asylum, Punch, Tuck, Ginosko, etc. Visit: https://www.facebook.com/MargaritaISerafimova/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel.

#finalpoems / [?]

Gay

I’m as gay as cranberries, apples and limes
Fresh fruit like peaches in the check-out line
Pink lemonade and pecans and cheese
Fresh pineapples loaded with seeds

Roses and mildew and cows in the field
Gerbils and oxen and the summer yield
Apricots, lemons, blueberries, figs
Hubcaps and lightpoles and music and twigs

Dimly lit beer gardens where we dine
Where patrons smoke and caterpillars climb
Where icy lakes freeze with violet snow
And bicyclists sing wherever they go

The reaper with his sickle
The count eating a pickle
The castle in the hills
Telephones, books, windowsills

Octagon houses swaddled in night
Big leaping rainbows across the bight
And sheep and mist and herbs and shrooms
Bones rattling in sealed tombs

Courage and fear and voluptuousness
Going to sleep, giving a kiss
Running a race all the way to the moon
Dying in droves, shining the spoon

Opening your heart to a friend who cares
Stomping bugs that leap through the air
Cities with lots of bright lights
Visions of paradise on hot summer nights

Friends and music and beer and clothes
Finches and hewels and eagles and crows
Pink and black and purple between
Taking a hike, eating a bean

The seasons as they turn and shrink
Early-risers begging for a drink
Goats with five eyes and oceans with feelings
Hallowed thurifiers and dirty dealings

Cocaine posing as salt
Natural disasters, the San Andreas Fault
Quantum theory, the girl with the pen
All of the numbers—even ten

Life behind my eyes, fading and gone
Ocean breezes and singing along
The winding road, crooked and free
And all the branches on all the trees.

Alex Witonsky is a writer from Smithtown, New York. You can find a story of his at GravelMag.com. He likes mushrooms especially.

#finalpoems / [?]

Tuning

Every time I step on that
old floor you half-way fixed,
my big toe finds the bent nail
not quite hammered in
And I think of cursing you
but of course I don’t.
Can’t take the bad karma
at this stage of life.

So I smile
remembering your moxie
and your half-baked skills
and the family you have to support
and I think I’ll put a rug there,
to cover the hazard, but I don’t.
Can’t find one to spare.

And I think of my half-baked compassion
and how I’ll get from here to anywhere
and I think of my first hero
Bodhi Dharma, crossing continents
to carry a message of import,
waiting years to be heard,
then saying, there’s nowhere to go.

“To dwell in the three realms
is to dwell in a burning house.
To have a body is to suffer.”
To step on a bent nail barely counts
unless it helps me remember
what really matters. We’re here, then not.

quote from The Zen Teachings of Bodhi Dharma, translated by Red Pine, p 5.

Mary Newell lives in the lower Hudson Valley. Her chapbook, TILT/ HOVER/ VEER is forthcoming from Codhill Press in January 2019. Her poems were published in BlazeVox, Dispatches from the Poetry Wars, Spoon River Poetry Review, Hopper Literary Magazine, Earth’s Daughters, Written River, About Place, etc. She has also written reviews and essays, including “Shades of Melancholy: Darker Moods in Dickinson’s Poetry” in Melancholia: Hinge as Innominate Limina, by Will Alexander, Heller Levinson, and Mary Newell. Dr. Newell (MA Columbia, BA Berkeley) received a doctorate from Fordham University in American Literature and the Environment. She has taught literature and writing at Fordham University, West Point, and other colleges. Website: https://manitoulive.wixsite.com/maryn

#finalpoems / [?]

we were told an end was never really an end.
that time is an infinite line whose wingspan embraces before and after and everything in between.
i always walked this line like a tightrope,
hopeful
but
never really quite certain of where i’d end up.

death skinned her knee on the sidewalk today.
i gave her some antiseptic and a bandage.
i asked her what she was doing in my neighborhood. she said she’s taking people home.
she said mother earth is in hospice.
it’s better this way.

death knocked on my door.
she’d bled through the first bandage.
i gave her another.
i asked her if it will hurt.
she said we would not feel.
she said our bodies will know what to do.
she said our eyes will close to this lifetime and open again in another.

death sat down at my kitchen table.
i poured her a cup of tea.
i asked her where we will go
and what will we become.
she said we will transcend into omniscience.
that our existence will be everything and nothing all at once.
she said we will be liberated of earthly limitations.
that we’d dissolve into the sands of time and exist behind the barricades of an hourglass.
she said once the sands have run through
and after our souls have become weary
that we would be scattered into the sky
swaddled in darkness and
christened by light.

hannah whalen was born in a small town in sacramento, california in august of 1999. in her spare time she enjoys writing poetry and prose pieces, creating art, thrifting and up-cycling clothing, spending time with friends and family and playing with animals. she is currently in her second year at portland state university pursuing a degree in social sciences.

#finalpoems / [?]

Contemporaries

I am at this moment a fly in amber honey slow in the hot car
humidity as breathing through mittens
or clenched fists
or arms held high to protect
or burying your face in your pillow each night
counting slowly to seven

inhale one two three four exhale count to eight.

As a child I pressed my hands to the space between eyelid and temple when faced with something frightening, blinders.

When they bulldozed it all to the ground I sat facing it and cried.
Mine and Danny’s names scratched into the concrete at the base and now that’s all that’s left of that life: the nursery gone, the house, the home, the neighbor boy who hid in tall grasses crashed his car on the road I drive daily.

Our flag has garroted itself in the breeze and now from the pole at the edge of our garage only the red and white are visible; in a moment I’ll leave the car lift it from its mount wind the tail over and complete the task that’s started, brace to fold it shut before even a corner dips to touch the ground.

Jill Bergantz Carley is a Pushcart Prize nominated poet living in rural Northern California.  Her work is forthcoming from OPOSSUM, Silver Needle Press, Collective Unrest, and elsewhere this spring.  She lives online at jillbergantzcarley.com.

#finalpoems / [?]

On Love and Loving

I have never loved, well not in the way
I should have. Not in the way that on my
death bed, memories of the one I loved
will fill my mind, visions of his face
clouding my already dim eyes, as I whisper
heart felt words of what he meant to me
and how my life was made that much better
by loving him and being loved by him.

Tears of loss will rain from my eyes as they
closed to blackness, the memories of him left there,
lingering above my death bed. I would have liked
that, liked to experience the kind of love that
follows you almost into death.

Antoinette is not ready for the end of the world (at least not yet).

#finalpoems / [?]

The forgotten crumbs
of your devoured childhood
didn’t know what to do
so, lonely & scared,
they dressed up as ghosts.

Your ghost crumbs
haunt you regularly,
   .   seven days a week
   .      .   (Monday through Munday),
like frisbees & Nerf footballs
stuck in the rain gutters
of your mind,

begging you
to come outside
& save them/play with them
before it’s too late,

if it isn’t already.

Homeless is a shithead laureate / crap artist who publishes poems and hangs “art” on the streets & in the subways of NYC. The streets & subways of NYC both hate his poems & art & have begged him to stop but Homeless refuses because he has “nothing better to do” with his time. He has two books forthcoming—“Ghost Crumbs,” a collection of poetry (University of Hell Press), & “This Hasn’t Been a Very Magical Journey So Far,” a novel (Expat Press). If you’d like to reach him, you can find Homeless nestled on the virtual streets of obscurity at…
https://www.instagram.com/xoxohomeless/
https://twitter.com/xoxoHomeless

#finalpoems / [?]

How The World Will End

First the short-sighted will kill
all the coral. The far-sighted will leap
to their deaths, evading the inevitable blaze. The far-sided
will thank the Electoral college. The fire will spread
to the top floor. The truthers will inexorably
find evidence. The birthers will fear the end
of Western culture. The pro-lifers will bomb
the right-to-lifers. The embryos
will defrost. The scientists will drop
their papers, say “according to
my calculations” and be laughed
off the planet. The terrorists won’t win
this time. The blind will sniff out
the CBD-dusted mice for your emotional
support anaconda. The therapy
seeing-eye dogs will blow whistles
nobody hears. The NSA will know nothing
beyond your relationship status. Starbucks will
cancel Christmas and new years. Even the deaf will call
themselves DJs. Even the numb will feel
the room getting hotter. The dumb will post
what they can’t say. The mediums will set
their intentions and charge you
for mantras. ™ will stand
for transcendental meditation. The East will open
a social media follower factory. The West will cleanse
with Ayuhuasca diets. The President will
stop surprising you. Businesses will all become
subscription services, personally tailored to your
needs, including the newspapers. Individual will replace
indivisible in the Pledge of Allegiance,
and Myers-Briggs behaviorism will replace God.
The truth will be something you embalm
to your Pinterest board. The billionaires will sell real
estate on Mars. Your property will be
waterfront. The lost souls
will belong to the white men and the lost voices
to whomever’s left. The lost boys
will be boys and women be girls and
everyone in between clutch their bladders.
The millennial boys will cliffnote abridged
visions of Peter Pan and girls Cinderella
on their phones. The contractors
will replace buildings with brandings.
The contracts will be signed in crude oil.
The will will not account for Bitcoin.
The student loan bubble will burst.
The teachers will run out
of food stamps. The administrators will pay
lip service to diversity. The government will sell
assault rifles which will be America’s most effective
gun control movement. The filing cabinet
will replace the donkey. The nurses will prescribe
lip balm. Your insurance will cover
your mouth with a handkerchief
and meurchloroform. The doctors will tell you
nothing is wrong.

Christine Reilly lives in New York, New York. She teaches at Sarah Lawrence College’s Writers Village and Gotham Writers Workshop. Her first novel, Sunday’s on the Phone to Monday, was published in 2016 by Touchstone and is the recipient of a Kirkus Star. She had published poetry and short stories in The Adirondack Journal, Barely South Review, and over fifty other journals. Follow her on Twitter @reillypoet.

#finalpoems / [?]

I Wake Up Knowing My Father is Dead

I either remember too much or too little, forget
loved ones’ birthdays, but recall every word said in anger,
call them up at will. You distrust me, as you should,
the way I’ll use what you’ve said when needed. A friend
once said that everything is grist for the mill, and I think
of this when I draft & save, or submit, send some missive
into the ether, something they didn’t mean to tell me;
I hesitate, my finger over the “Enter” button, but always

push it, finally. For the absolute nothing I’ll take
to the grave: for what the coffee grounds spilled
in gravy represent. The waiting feels endless. Geese
fly overhead tonight, in the half-dark, announced
by their honking; the woods have remembered you
ever since the first time you stepped in them.*

*As fitting for a final poem, the closing lines are not mine. Thanks to @DothTheDoth for these enigmatic final words.

C. Kubasta’s most recent book of poetry is Of Covenants (Whitepoint Press). Find her at www.ckubasta.com and @CKubastathePoet

#finalpoems / [?]

panic-room

there is no reality
within the realms of the panic-room, the shock of a dangerous
excitement purges the coursing fear and
i am whole.
an emergency (manic depression is the constant notion of a home invasion).
holding onto my true love – my madness, a
weapon behind ornamental
gates (crimson with rust), clinging to traces of prison-earth,
illuminated highways lulling me to sleep, i dream of
the moon gliding on the surface of water.

Grace Alice Evans is an emerging poet based in Staffordshire, UK. She is currently studying a BA (Hons) in English and Creative Writing at Staffordshire University, and have been previously published in Inside the Bell Jar, the HCE Review, and the Period. Zine.

#finalpoems / [?]

My Lion, My Sky

Beautiful, golden lion! Like a brick of gold, a forest sunset, desert, a whisper of caramel across the horizon. Her mane mussed by the wind, it carries the scent of woman and man and neither and all. Deep sad eyes, red orange jigsawed masculinity, after all pink was once for boys. He is plain cougar fur; he matches the cubs, the pack. A broom in his hand, a strained smile in his teeth. But wait! Now he is a blue jay, delicate summer days for one more week, a blend with a vibrant cloud and the promise of rain. In his feathers snow, a wind, a sunny hail. Black eyes without pupils survey us, interrogating who, what are you on the inside? Which? You must know! What is it, they cry, we need to tell them apart! You may fly in exactly one half of the sky.

I am the wing of the jay, a snake’s scales, the mane of the lion. My mane shall be womanly, its coarse hair the mark of my soft beauty. The fur of a lizard, the white fox spines, the leaping snail. The earth within me soars above the sky. Find my sky. I stretch my wings out to touch the infinite beauty of my possibility, freedom, endless, myself, all.

But I’m in captivity. The atmosphere closes around me, dribbling laughter. Bars extend down to the core of the earth and they tug at me, they approach, they reach out to squeeze me, and they dance in grotesque shapes. I huddle towards my wall, my back, my floor― I can’t breathe, I can’t stand, the world tilts, my cage is a circle. The circumference of this perfectly spherical prison revolves as I turn to gage my surroundings: the code rewrites itself to counter each thought that enters my mind, morphing and adapting to each desperate, half-formed thought that emerges to the surface of my mind. What irony gender cannot do the same!

The spherical cell has no air, it is white but it has no color, the only gravity I know is the denseness of the world; my prison. I am powerless to stop the oppressive nothingness that engulfs me in its grasp. There it eliminates my functionality, mystifies my close relations, and most likely invigorates the power-holders who amplify the insidiousness of the prison that parasitizes my community. We are confined in a sphere of shame and silence.

My sobs are the air, oppressive nothingness my everything. Do I constitute me? My body is not me. I can make it an imitation, but never a perfect comfortability.

To all my elders, siblings, and unborn future, I salute you. To those of us successful and educated, disenfranchised, persecuted, incarcerated, stripped of health care, homeless, in poverty, imprisoned in Chechen concentration camps, murdered, and silenced, to the future generation of Queer and trans warriors, I salute you.

My sky is an entrance wound, my lion a suicide statistic.

I am nothing. I am all.

Magdalena Smith is a 16-year-old writer, queer theorist, and activist. She is the Founder and Executive Director of SAPPHX, a youth-driven non-governmental organization working to ban LGBTQ+ conversion therapy in all 50 US states. She is a United Nations Youth Delegate and ardent political science, gender studies, and LGBTQ+ history nerd living in Ithaca, New York.