Skip to main content

Four Poems - Olexia Hart



Gentle Hands

Every day I come here its the exact same thing
Hands over me and I wish...
Hands under me and I wish...

In/out, out/in of me and I wish...
They were other hands
More gentle hands
Limbs of an untainted love



Trees

How do I say this?
Without sounding like a B
I dont give a fuck about trees
Unless you can put it to your lips
and set its ass on fire
I recycle



The Long Drunk Fuck

Hes drunk; youre not
Wanna scream hurry the fuck up
But you dont say shit
Staring at the back of the couch
Negative eye roll in your head
Sloppy slip-outs
Breath!
The ok, ok Im almost finished disclaimer
You sarcastically begin to back it up
oh ah oh ah daddy...
Just so hell hurry the hell up



Handprints

Your hands are all over me
Melting, splicing, molding into my forever
Swab test all wired and screwed up
Trying to imitate
The funky web assigned to you






Olexia Hart graduated from Howard University.  She is currently working on her first poetry collection.

Popular posts from this blog

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 ...

Two Poems - Sonali Raj

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