There are ways to know the mother
will leave. She no longer cooks with Morton salt
though pressures rise like aspirations
and the soup still tastes of tears.
You often find her buried ...
Signs of Impending Matriarchal Departure or Fair? by Alafia Nicole Sessions
LAR Online, Poetry
How Would You Like It
The indignity at the end. I tell myself to tell you.
No one would want this though no one is asked.
Times he was left naked on the too-high bed;
not allowed to eat, or forced ...
2 Poems by Mary Ann Samyn
LAR Online, Poetry
Gravity. [noun]
the natural attraction between physical bodies,
especially when one of the bodies is celestial.
This is how it begins:
gravity has, for a brief ...
Natural Attraction by B.A. Van Sise
LAR Online, Poetry
Because the men keep going missing and we like to wear the pants. We lookgood in tweed and love a long smoke sorting things out before a dark fire.She’s been dead seven decades but her ghost sense burns better than ...
Portrait of Myself as Watson, my Great Grandmother, Sherlock Holmes by Michelle Bitting
LAR Online, Poetry
You were placed like wings are placed
as if they’ll never be needed to leave with
but then you were born
and each time I unwrap your diaper
I consider every ...
Mother Nothing by Elizabeth Metzger
LAR Online, Poetry
Sundays were always the green
of aquarium glass, the smell
of waxed duck pinching the house.
The television splintering
the room like the dry season;
outside, dogs’ perpetual barking.
My ...
KLANG, 2003 by Lyn Li Che
LAR Online, Poetry
They did not know—the first
flowers in space, planted by a hand
years removed from another, already
the bones losing mass, density
another word for dependent,
the way oblong seeds in ...
Zinnias by Sarah Fawn Montgomery
LAR Online, Poetry
Hyacinth: killed by a stone discus, by accident or out of anger, thrown by his lover.
And always after one murder or another
a great power wonders,
how shall I commemorate the act?
Already the boy is ...
Hyacinth by Lee Upton
LAR Online, Poetry
If they’re communing with themselves, bewitched
by caverned basement shadows candlelit
and musk of brick, old rags, damp empty sleeves
mother hung to dry, how peevishly should we
scoff? No father clumps to ...
Triplets at a Ouija Board, 1951 by Adam Tavel
LAR Online, Poetry
