Among digital brides
︎︎︎ Naomi Leigh
︎ Dec 12, 2025
Peter tells me black tie in mid-afternoon is perverse, Eveningwear in the day mere steps from brown-shoe-black-belt.
But—customs be damned!—they present to me in spurts
Of pixelated technicolor as my eyes begin to melt
Into mobile images in my hand of a getaway car turned hearse
And old friends turned strangers and feelings so long unfelt.
Tulle and taffeta and Chantilly lace hug the bride
Who hugs an old friend, hair more receded, yet arm firm by her side.
II
It’s not the fires of envy that burn in my soul
Nor pangs of nostalgia that freeze me in my walk.
But the absence of something, the presence of a hole
Where once there was a path, and now but grass and stalk.
And unfolding before is the life I may have known
Had I stayed the charted course, had I not deviated on my walk.
Oh, tender heart, you know so many things the digital brides never will
But are you richer for the knowledge? Have you got more than your fill?
When you watch them dance to old crooners belting Earth Wind & Fire
In italicized fonts and millennial captions unearthed in red rings
Is it a sphere of youthful symphony? Is your soul alit with desire?
Or does your mind wander to like a living child to more mundane things?
Compared to the eternal bond of matrimony, what could be higher?
Than what leads men to cavort and drives women to sing.
Traveling too often leads you no home to return to
And armoires give way to the bags of mine I’ve strewn.
IV
Life is not a static thing that can be captured in a flash
Nor the bloodied toes of ballerinas who sauter from first position.
It’s the paradox of movement and the chafing of the gash
And the vibrations of the timpani echoing in Tchaikovsky’s rendition.
Oh, long diverged paths before me, so impenetrable your railings as I pass
Do my ungrateful eyes dare glance your way? Will you derail my mission?
Oh bright green light before me, oh wintry gravel road I’ve chosen
How am I to know if I’ve made it or I’m frozen?
But—customs be damned!—they present to me in spurts
Of pixelated technicolor as my eyes begin to melt
Into mobile images in my hand of a getaway car turned hearse
And old friends turned strangers and feelings so long unfelt.
Tulle and taffeta and Chantilly lace hug the bride
Who hugs an old friend, hair more receded, yet arm firm by her side.
II
It’s not the fires of envy that burn in my soul
Nor pangs of nostalgia that freeze me in my walk.
But the absence of something, the presence of a hole
Where once there was a path, and now but grass and stalk.
And unfolding before is the life I may have known
Had I stayed the charted course, had I not deviated on my walk.
Oh, tender heart, you know so many things the digital brides never will
But are you richer for the knowledge? Have you got more than your fill?
When you watch them dance to old crooners belting Earth Wind & Fire
In italicized fonts and millennial captions unearthed in red rings
Is it a sphere of youthful symphony? Is your soul alit with desire?
Or does your mind wander to like a living child to more mundane things?
Compared to the eternal bond of matrimony, what could be higher?
Than what leads men to cavort and drives women to sing.
Traveling too often leads you no home to return to
And armoires give way to the bags of mine I’ve strewn.
IV
Life is not a static thing that can be captured in a flash
Nor the bloodied toes of ballerinas who sauter from first position.
It’s the paradox of movement and the chafing of the gash
And the vibrations of the timpani echoing in Tchaikovsky’s rendition.
Oh, long diverged paths before me, so impenetrable your railings as I pass
Do my ungrateful eyes dare glance your way? Will you derail my mission?
Oh bright green light before me, oh wintry gravel road I’ve chosen
How am I to know if I’ve made it or I’m frozen?
Naomi Leigh is a writer based in NYC.
Reuven
︎︎︎ Toxic Brodude
︎ Dec 11, 2025
Replace my lips
with razor blades,
and kissing you
becomes
fun again.
with razor blades,
and kissing you
becomes
fun again.
Toxic Brodude is an English writer.
Birthday Puppy
︎︎︎ Emily K. Sipiora
︎ Dec 10, 2025
All my life to love
all the very best
And when the whole world hurts you
I will kill the rest
all the very best
And when the whole world hurts you
I will kill the rest
Emily K. Sipiora is a Mexican American poet and Creative Director of the internet literature podcast VICTIM RADIO.
Also by Emily: All Life
Summer Afternoon
︎︎︎ Jared Flood
︎ Dec 9, 2025
You never said exactly what sex is,
stuck in the bulk of air thick
like Kentucky bourbon bellies
of the suburban dads just outside,
lounging like August
atop boat rust on the dock —
sharing beer and similar levels
of sun damage, contemplating local
conspiracies in overgrown civil obscurity.
After a string of health code violations,
the news says, a barge sinks their favorite bar
floating on the Ohio for insurance money,
the news doesn’t say. All it takes to love
something is for it to be yours
our bodies take different shapes
in the water’s silty reflection.
Language is always finding me late,
moving slow as a finger pushing letters
through wet cement. Inside, water drops
from the AC seated in the mouth
of your window. Fan string
tapping the glass of its own light.
one-hundred or so blackbirds
explode from a tree.
stuck in the bulk of air thick
like Kentucky bourbon bellies
of the suburban dads just outside,
lounging like August
atop boat rust on the dock —
sharing beer and similar levels
of sun damage, contemplating local
conspiracies in overgrown civil obscurity.
After a string of health code violations,
the news says, a barge sinks their favorite bar
floating on the Ohio for insurance money,
the news doesn’t say. All it takes to love
something is for it to be yours
our bodies take different shapes
in the water’s silty reflection.
Language is always finding me late,
moving slow as a finger pushing letters
through wet cement. Inside, water drops
from the AC seated in the mouth
of your window. Fan string
tapping the glass of its own light.
one-hundred or so blackbirds
explode from a tree.
Jared is one of the people who lives in Portland, Oregon.
Love-Like
︎︎︎ Ryan D. Petersen
︎ Dec 8, 2025
From a random seed,
you and I are spawned.
Two points
in a scatter plot
of coherent noise.
The weapon’s description tells a story
we don’t read.
Our tiny world has enough context clues:
the strange bend in the blinds,
the pink stain in the bathroom tile.
In his homily
the priest names it “permadeath.”
This loss of character,
of progress itself.
Yet I know
the unknown possessions
we once carried:
bitter elixir
divine syringe
daddy’s magic ring
orange thorazine
twin humanity
Walk out of bounds
at the edge of Creation
and you fly up
with no recorded value
for your coordinates.
I rise too,
skybox be damned,
the tether between us taut
and without knots.
Ours is not a limitless state.
We are ascending.
We are falling.
The session erases itself.
But some mornings,
after dying,
I forget which arm is mine
and thank God
for my mistake.
you and I are spawned.
Two points
in a scatter plot
of coherent noise.
The weapon’s description tells a story
we don’t read.
Our tiny world has enough context clues:
the strange bend in the blinds,
the pink stain in the bathroom tile.
In his homily
the priest names it “permadeath.”
This loss of character,
of progress itself.
Yet I know
the unknown possessions
we once carried:
bitter elixir
divine syringe
daddy’s magic ring
orange thorazine
twin humanity
Walk out of bounds
at the edge of Creation
and you fly up
with no recorded value
for your coordinates.
I rise too,
skybox be damned,
the tether between us taut
and without knots.
Ours is not a limitless state.
We are ascending.
We are falling.
The session erases itself.
But some mornings,
after dying,
I forget which arm is mine
and thank God
for my mistake.