Tag Archives: poem

Medusa Buys A Car by David C. Kopaska-Merkel

Medusa Buys A Car

Medusa’s weave is bulky of necessity, her glasses dark,
she’s buying a car, but the salesman’s calling her
little lady, and darling
darling, my thousand-year-old ass, she thinks.
Then he offers her an insurance rate she knows
is much too high, her hand is inching up
to her glasses, the snakes are stirring,
and she feels a bit like Dr. Strangelove;
it would be so satisfying, but this jerk’s not worth it.
She stands up to leave, and he’s all I can get
you a lower rate
 and if I said anything,
but she’s gone, googling
woman-owned car dealerships and
what was she thinking, walking into that place, anyway?

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Image Credit: Combine an attractive Medusa [cleanpng.com] with her viper car [topspeed.com]

Collards and Kale by David Arroyo

Collards and Kale

Lex, the lich, lurks in the low country, leaning long, hard
on the history of bar-b-que in the deep south.
Careful, his cafeteria, collards and kale, keeps
a vegan menu but that faux banana pudding
made with coconut milk, sows a slow, slouching desire
for ribs rubbed ruby. His secret? He lies. Condensed milk,
a teaspoon of coconut sugar, and magic scraped off
the backside of General Lee’s casket and baked
into the vanilla wafers, round out his sordid
list of ingredients designed to make a soy boy
a savage soul-sucker in one serving and forty-
eight hours of suffering. It’s ministry, renewing
primal drives in the civilized, spreads the good news
with burnt ends.

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Image Credit: Pork belly burnt ends and collards [orwhateveryoudo.com] for the sonnet-like poem

Soul for Sale by Anahita Ayasoufi

Soul for Sale

In a losing war
One warrior’s fighting, his skin riddled by
A thousand scars

When he no longer can
He finds his way to no man’s land
and knocks on the Devil’s door

Soul for sale, he shouts, for my people’s peace
Rip my heart out, but
Make battles cease

It’s impossible, the Devil says, awed
You have brought to me
What stumped your god?

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Image Credit: Fire Angel [wallpaperaccess.com]

Blackberries by Tina Carey

Blackberries

In the delivery room.    I
land on the smell of my mother
embraced by strangers

she only woke from her dead emotions
for me     in june

when we searched for ripe blackberries.     she
glowed at the site of the blackish fruit.   she
awed at the perfectly shaped bush.  she
kneeled as nature’s breath helped drop her blessing.

she
tenderly plucks and cradles each one in her dainty hand and
places the overflow in the tiny folds of mine.

be careful
she said.
don’t hold them too tight
she said.

the juice—                                                                       stains

if only I had never washed my hands.   at least

at least

we’d have that.

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Image Credit: Collage of mulberry branches [wallpaperflare.com] and the abstract pregnant woman [nicepng.com]