Two Poems - Sonali Raj

If I were your dog

If I were your dog
I would begin by
licking the hollow
of your toes.

If I were your dog
I would lie on my back
with my arms and legs
in the air and you would
scratch my chest, around my
nipples, down
to my belly.

You would change
in front of me because
I wouldn't leave your room.
I would lie on my stomach
with my head on the floor,
between my paws and after
a while of looking at you
naked, I would get bored
and turn on my side.

But if you prefer, I could
be your kitten and
spend the night
between your breasts.

Doing Yoga

You cannot convolute me, you cannot
I have a bone there that can't bend from its middle, it cannot
My breaths are short because I'm thinking dirty thoughts
Your laughter is fake because you don't smile afterward
Leave me alone at five o'clock.

Sonali Raj lives in India and has an MFA from City University, Hong Kong. Her work has appeared in Eastlit, Kitaab and a few other places.

Four Poems - JD DeHart

An Ode to Heraclitus It’s true that nothing stays the same, the lead singer taking over the former crooner’s place, learning of death on a late Friday night,

Eating From an Imaginary Spoon: Poems - Allison Grayhurst

Alive on your wave of wet torment, licking the moon of your lips, cradling your breath in my mouth as I held you submerged in my contracting core, held you within as you were within saturated with my pulse and flow. I went under, planted in the memories of your soul. You swallowed our merging with rapid speed. We evolved, stripped of every season, you and I with our initials carved on each other’s skin, undulating in our sensual, blessed commune. Eating from an imaginary spoon Sensual as clay laced with warm water, hard as a window barred - and still the seeds are thrown though I don’t know why - there is too much earth and almost no sun, there are slimy ponds that beasts and fowls eliminate in - spotted with dead-fish-eyes and not at all like heaven is suppose to be. There is a funeral in the fireplace but no one connected enough to mourn the dead thing burning. There are seven steps up and nine down, and indifferent cruelty has murdered every other form of synchronicity - I ...

White Liquor

Search This Blog