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Men are so delicate, must be given many portals. I try to be game.

A memory in the drip, drip, drip of the kitchen sink that won’t stop.

My soul is simple; it doesn’t think. Something strange paces there now.

A goddess was offended; her altar required my virgin blood.

You linger in the dimming aftermath, grayer and fainter than a breath.

Beyond her ampleness, he stands a small man vanquished.

The first skeleton drawn from the earth, they called beautiful.

“Leaving for war, Hayes wept. He didn’t just cry; he wept...”

From a pyre on the burning ghat a corpse slowly sits up in the flames.

I wanted my love to be everywhere, then love began to bite through me.

I awakened on my belly—my back a raw field from nape to heels.

Ike’s voice left behind on the shore as Tina plunges in again.

Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.

Now he chuckles with the sea, stitched within its timeless jive.

I am visited daily by unrelenting spirits evoking my accumulated flaws.

Again, nature has written a good script. The skunk saga will continue.

The strange man expected to be picked up by aliens during the eclipse.

No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone.

A boy in a dress vanishes beneath the sound of his own galloping.

Buster’s reasons for looking after Marco weren’t entirely altruistic.

“The doors are closed,” she said, and we would not be flying to Paris.

No fields of gold. No ripe. One hill, no wave, no roll. I am billboards.

Lillian-Yvonne Bertram

Rebecca Lehmann

I want to sleep in a bed next to a man who won’t dream of me all night.

It’s the roll-up-your-sleeves hour, when you have to make a living.

You can stand on the edge and tremble with fear or risk your life.

I slept but never dreamed there. Nor did I feel the need to court a god.

We put effort into making things that No Man would ever think of creating.

Tanya jokes that she comes to the East Coast now only for funerals.