In our attic,
among things, as it seems
of past lives,
lives a bitter God.
When guests come to our house,
we don’t mention him.
When we’re alone,
we talk about him quietly,
fearing of being heard.
We do not know exactly when he moved in,
nor do we know why exactly with us.
Maybe because of the serenity.
___
The featured image accompanying this poem, entitled ‘I. Am. Legend’, have been used with the permission of artist Patricio Betteo.
Coincidence did not cause the young man’s cheek to share the curve of mine in his gray, buttered face. His finger-combed hair wet with grease,
She’s lighting a cigarette. The first time pops lost his words, I found her between the legs of a railway, staring at the ocean of
___The featured image accompanying this piece, entitled ‘Spectrum’, has been used with the permission of artist, Robert Alan, a mixed media artist from New York
An independent literary magazine for contemporary fiction, thought, and opinion about popular culture, society, and everything on the periphery.
