Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked the pages of Anti-Heroin Chic, Moonchild Magazine, Occulum, Neologism Poetry, Rise Up Review, Faded Out, Paper and Ink Zine and many other publications. Her chapbook Pink Plastic House is available through maverickduckpress.com. Follow her sonnets and socks on Twitter: @lolaandjolie.
Do you hear it — what is dead? Sibilance
in shrunken head. Asphyxiated, ice
cream truck, backmasked melodic Maypole dance
then self destruct. Sleepwalking sacrifice,
Publication Date: April 13, 2018
Journal: Luna Luna
They speak websites, ignore, in black and white,
brunette exsanguinated tv mute
receptacle you can’t unsee.
Publication Date: July 30, 2018
Recent work by Bruce Robinson appears or is forthcoming in Mobius, Dispatches from the Poetry Wars, Panoply, and Pangyrus.
that first perceptible
aperture on a sock,
the quiet depredation
of the heel, the way
Publication Date: November 2018
Journal: Journal of Compressed Creative Arts
Title: Super Moon
Soon there will be beaujolais nouveau
parties, le beaujolais nouveau
est arrivé, at Bleu Provence (the
moon says so) and we will pair
Publication Date: October 2018
Journal: Indolent Books/What Rough Beast
Susan Rukeyser wrote “Ingrown Rage” for The Desert Split Open Mic, a radical, queer, feminist open mic she recently started in Joshua Tree, CA. She is the author of the novel, Not On Fire, Only Dying (Twisted Road Publications) and a chapbook of tiny stories, Swap / Meet (Space Cowboy Books). In 2018, she edited and published Feckless Cunt: A Feminist Anthology. Susan’s creative nonfiction work appears in numerous places including River Teeth, Mom Egg Review, Women Writers, Women’s Books, and Hippocampus Magazine, where she won their inaugural “Remember in November” contest. www.susanrukeyser.com
Title: Ingrown Rage
By twelve-years-old, my legs were too long. I was taller than the boys, so I slouched because girls should be small, I was told. Petite, waiflike, a pocket Venus, the girl shorter than the boy, even if she must bend her knees or wear flats when she wants to stilt-walk. In high school, the cutest, tiniest cheerleader was thrown into the air as if weightless, as if nothing, and oh how I wished I was small enough to be thrown around, how I wished to be less.
Publication Date: July 2019
Title: I Was a Pink Bath Bomb
I was a hard, pink ball, meant for one use only. My job was to dissolve in hot water, into dyes and perfumes, oils and salts. I was called a bomb, but there’s no denying I was pretty.
Publication Date: April 2019
Journal: Mojave He[art] Review
Photo Credit: © bluraz / Adobe Stock