The Children’s Reverie
︎︎︎ Dan Darrah
︎ Dec 7, 2024
Teenage
carnies at the end of the summer
in fuck-off land psychologically
Amy and her armfuls of rumors
under oak trees old as parents
Jealous of the teachers’ husbands
Shooting fireworks at your cousins
I wanted to be him
Cut my hair in the hallway
Red-faced fathers in the rink’s bleachers
Our half-wet hair drying in December air
On the grad trip meeting punks from Vermont
Watch ghosthunting shows in a Best Western
I heard Dave’s dad lie on the diner phone
My coffee now resembles my father’s
In June classrooms hating Katie Leary
in who I saw myself so clearly
Taking the first bus home delirious
from all-nighting at your brother’s apartment
At a dying party where your hair covered the stain
and aren’t you glad you came?
Instant summer moon smile
Taking peculiar drugs watching Grind
Light poured through the keyhole
Making shapes on our faces Marcy and me
Dream of your DUI
Dream of your cul-de-sac
Crying Saturday tears
Consulting the I Ching
Hearing hymns through clerestory windows
walking to Wingstop
Trying barely
Failing inevitably
Three years of senior pranks involve farm animals
Numbered pigs and tipped cows
On a humid porch writing
and waiting for the band to show
On Highway 7 flanked by Thanksgiving hills
Gold apples Cranberry teeth
The kid on the bus who always hit his tambourine
later collapsed on the shopfloor
Amy in the army
Dave in law school chanting Hare Krishna
Dream of your gangly arms
Dream of your car’s golden exhaust
We were stranded on Lookout Hill
watching rivers cross making impossible plans
Whip around a thin, disgusting string of gum
Yack from a balcony
Observe circus-going boomers
losing their shit over planes doing aerial eights
Cut off the deadwood of the past,
that which can’t become a good story
Lose the irretrievable minutiae
Banisters railings salt-stained tires
We remember in brief flashes
through the people we hurt
When I sleep
I see you now as you were then
in fuck-off land psychologically
Amy and her armfuls of rumors
under oak trees old as parents
Jealous of the teachers’ husbands
Shooting fireworks at your cousins
I wanted to be him
Cut my hair in the hallway
Red-faced fathers in the rink’s bleachers
Our half-wet hair drying in December air
On the grad trip meeting punks from Vermont
Watch ghosthunting shows in a Best Western
I heard Dave’s dad lie on the diner phone
My coffee now resembles my father’s
In June classrooms hating Katie Leary
in who I saw myself so clearly
Taking the first bus home delirious
from all-nighting at your brother’s apartment
At a dying party where your hair covered the stain
and aren’t you glad you came?
Instant summer moon smile
Taking peculiar drugs watching Grind
Light poured through the keyhole
Making shapes on our faces Marcy and me
Dream of your DUI
Dream of your cul-de-sac
Crying Saturday tears
Consulting the I Ching
Hearing hymns through clerestory windows
walking to Wingstop
Trying barely
Failing inevitably
Three years of senior pranks involve farm animals
Numbered pigs and tipped cows
On a humid porch writing
and waiting for the band to show
On Highway 7 flanked by Thanksgiving hills
Gold apples Cranberry teeth
The kid on the bus who always hit his tambourine
later collapsed on the shopfloor
Amy in the army
Dave in law school chanting Hare Krishna
Dream of your gangly arms
Dream of your car’s golden exhaust
We were stranded on Lookout Hill
watching rivers cross making impossible plans
Whip around a thin, disgusting string of gum
Yack from a balcony
Observe circus-going boomers
losing their shit over planes doing aerial eights
Cut off the deadwood of the past,
that which can’t become a good story
Lose the irretrievable minutiae
Banisters railings salt-stained tires
We remember in brief flashes
through the people we hurt
When I sleep
I see you now as you were then
Dan Darrah is a poet, writer, and musician from Toronto, Canada. He is the author of two books of poetry, most recently Perennial Fields, published by Permanent Sleep Press.
Outdoors
︎︎︎ Cletus Crow
︎ Dec 5, 2024
cat brings gift
i don't open
cardinal broken
so red you can't
see blood
i don't open
cardinal broken
so red you can't
see blood
Cletus Crow is a poet. His debut full-length collection, Phallic Symbols, is available from Pig Roast Publishing.
Also by Cletus: Readings
I do it if you do it
︎︎︎ Joe Nasta
︎ Dec 3, 2024
Enjoy the escape.
Sit alone on a white sheet
copying him
out of the corner of your eye.
He’s watching you, too:
when you shrug, he shrugs.
Raise each other’s
eyebrows, winking.
You were destined
to meet and be silly
together. It’s a bro thing
or are you flirting?
Put your phone down.
He doesn’t want to meet your friends.
He’s still learning how you move your body.
Sit alone on a white sheet
copying him
out of the corner of your eye.
He’s watching you, too:
when you shrug, he shrugs.
Raise each other’s
eyebrows, winking.
You were destined
to meet and be silly
together. It’s a bro thing
or are you flirting?
Put your phone down.
He doesn’t want to meet your friends.
He’s still learning how you move your body.
Joe Nasta is vibing in Seattle. His debut book of short stories Halve It is forthcoming from Blue Forge Press. He is an Associate Editor at Hobart.
Also by Joe: phone call
A Ghost Inside
︎︎︎ Arcadia Molinas
︎ Dec 2, 2024
I’ve found the weight my dad has lost,
stuffed in cupboards, inside mattresses,
drifting with dust bunnies.
Something
is worming through my dad
and hollowing him out.
I can’t tell you how I know
other than
I know.
He is floating towards me,
I hear the rustle
of his threadbare pajamas.
Dad, please–it’s me,
Dad, I love you–
Dad?
stuffed in cupboards, inside mattresses,
drifting with dust bunnies.
Something
is worming through my dad
and hollowing him out.
I can’t tell you how I know
other than
I know.
He is floating towards me,
I hear the rustle
of his threadbare pajamas.
Dad, please–it’s me,
Dad, I love you–
Dad?
Arcadia Molinas is a Spanish writer and bartender based in London. She is an editor at Worms and her writing has appeared on Write or Die, Tetragrammaton, Cringe, minor lit[s], Worms, and elsewhere.
Tumblr poem
︎︎︎ Fiona Deane-Grundman
︎ Nov 29, 2024
0 followers 0 following no hate only love
Fiona Deane-Grundman is from California and lives in Montréal.