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Most recently published stories in Poets.
1:49am
4/16/25 1:49am I want to breathe death in my larynx and feel loose change in the torn and raggedy pockets of my mother’s cardigan. The water is next to the bed. It’s not cold and never will be. So I guess what’s left is us; we will walk with crooked feet on a path carved by ancient societies. You will borrow my shoes. I will taste vengeance in my tea and convince myself it’s good for my liver. Coffee is fine too. Yes, that’s all. I will think about how I want to kiss you and, the clouds, they will rise to space, and leaves, they will glue their limbs back together. The sun has been out for weeks. This screw isn’t any looser than when I bought it. But I will wake up and I will be in the ship that splits in two and slide my sullen palms across its tundric pillow. I never took swimming lessons so whatever happens is meant to be. I’m sorry if that upsets you. I’m sorry I said that. Anyway, I want to lie nude in wildflowers with ants who build colonies and worms who can’t see. You have a problem with textures. You can’t help it. I could try to tell you things, like how I want my children to understand how little everything is and to not be afraid of the giant fingers that grab at sewing needles in their dreams. I could say it always scared me. It’s just not right. But listen, back to it: I want to indulge in passion and binge affection. Is it a sin if it helps? I will endure the things I am given and inculcate everyone around me to do the same. Do five laps around the block before you respond, whatever helps. I will tell you I want harmony to be palpable and wheels of recognition to be locked in an imperishable gear. Refill the pot if it’s empty. What I want has nothing to do with me. Diagonal tile is cold, you know, and my hair gets crunchy after too long out there. I want this lesson to end.
By Olivia Dodgeabout 2 hours ago in Poets
Nothing Poetic Here
It's the 10th night of the new year. Every attempt to pen my melancholy sounds bitter. Every line starts with "why did you lie to me?". But I know the answer. You aren't an honest man. How am I supposed to mask those sentences, those feelings with a metaphor? I'm used to using my tears as pen ink but I've never used the blood of my wounds as pen ink. I'm glad you're doing fine. Great, better than ever. I know it's my silence giving you peace. My voice holds the thunder to shake that peace. Does the thought of me speaking up send a shiver down your spine? Tell me, what's it like? What's it like to know everything you touch shatters? Don't you know? Don't you know the least you could do is attempt to glue the pieces you broke back together? That's too much work isn't it?
By Bixi Hernandezabout 2 hours ago in Poets
