Body Count

by Shaun Terry


Another dead body sits on the pile,
reeking of cigarettes and gin,
half-smiling up at me behind smeared makeup,
its eyes rotating, trying to lock into mine.

The threads of your little cornflower date dress
stretch – barely making it – from one hip
all the way to the other hip,
and you smell like roses and acetone.

I fumbled over microwavable cliches
and feigned confusion
of the exclusively internal sort,
but in the dark corridors of our “romance,”
I was really just reaching into your chest
like in the Temple of Doom scene,
only to swallow it whole
without anyone noticing,
including myself.

I’m really very sorry. I didn’t mean it.
And yes; I ate your ice cream.

You’re not the first.
You won’t have been the last.


Shaun Terry is a 34-year old non-traditional student at the University of North Carolina, studying economics, after which he intends to work in Social Justice. He has a 5-year old daughter and spends his free time writing poetry and prose, as well as making music. Some of his writing can be found at http://shaunterrywriter.wordpress.com. He’s also interested in Myers-Briggs Typology, psychology more generally, and science and philosophy. Obviously, he drinks plenty of lattes.

Polarity

by Michelle Kubilis


I had known it the whole time
our love wouldn’t fade like sunlight through trees
It was a lie when I told you that
we were stretched thin – an emptiness searching for hope.

we were stretched thin – an emptiness searching for hope.
It was a lie when I told you that
our love wouldn’t fade like sunlight through trees.
I had known it the whole time

Meeting An Estranged Son

by Kushal Poddar


Short messages of blue
enters the treetop.
Grilled cheese and nothing-
he wants. Water in
the tall glass alerts
every time some car
passes. Moon rises
atop the mill’s chute.
We see no stars these days.
I want him to want
some more. Grilled cheese. Next?
His fingers hide his palm.
You cannot just return
and make everything right.
He doesn’t say and says.
In a message, his mother
made him my look alike.
I watch the etching,
the curves, strokes, give it
an eight. A B Plus.
A maudlin grin.