The Bride I met her on her wedding day Walked up to her, and smiled, No one ever talks to the bride I thought it might be interesting to try something new, Break tradition Henna patterns wrapped around her wrists climbed up her arms Spreading blossoms on tender flesh Her lips were a wilted crimson Tilted ever so slightly to the side, A perfect almost smile The first thing her mother taught her was to wipe the tears before the blood dries, Shredded knees heal, but shame never fades away, Don’t climb trees or ride bikes, That’s how little girls lose their virginity She sat on a porcelain throne beads and bows holding plastic flowers to the arm rests “are you alright?” I asked “I shouldn’t cry” she said, fingers catching tired tears “it’s fine to cry, you’ll be happy later” “I shouldn’t cry” “how long have you known him” [...]
Kait Burrier
Father took a hand saw to the rain gutter, but doubted my garbage bin would fill. How do I explain that there is no water? The bin filled in five minutes and we bought three more no fancy DIY spout nozzles, just hacked gutters, trash bins and screen for the worms/leaves/debris I’ve watched the fog, but it’s more than fog – I’ve watched the ocean’s selfie, haha, an imprint of itself: imagine the Pacific CRASHING against rock, the spray, the sonic boom of it all, now imagine that spray collecting – grabbing on to each other and pulling the marine layer from just above our heads and running, like bodies screaming for justice on the highway, for the mountains. I’ve watched the fog crash over the Gabilan range, flooding the crevices of the chaparral, giving the wiry blue oak a breather from the bleaching sun It looks like a tsunami [...]
Rest Stop We are all the year’s worries tossed into the dark dustbin of the sea. Swirling plastic returned, reared on its haunches. Let’s live slow and die when we do. Below the mess, kids are walking home from school. Gash the screen door to let the bugs in–– let them pinch my skin. I’ll coo investment tips in your ears. Anchor me to the all of our lives nestled in the hollow of this lake. Unbuckle my seatbelt. Unfasten my tongue. ___________________________________________ Devi K. Lockwood is a poet / touring cyclist / storyteller currently traveling the world by bicycle and by boat to collect 1001 stories from people she meets about water and/or climate change. You can keep up to date with her travels at .
For Emmett And if you are a boy, you might imagine the hairline that crawls backward without resistance. The barber was a good barber. Give him a blade and his grandfather emerges from the palm, like a slave that was a good slave, raking the weeds back until all you see is a shaven field of grass, ready for eyes to bear witness to this marvelous thing. The barber might’ve talked to Emmett about his grandfather, the hands that grooms the America black folk always attempt to believe in. I’m sure Emmett would’ve cracked a joke, light- ened the mood for the body to settle in and humor toughens the skin, I am told. I know he could not have bled even if the razor wished to carve more than the patches of wool, resting on the head like a dark field of grass after dusk. And if you are [...]