Submissions by Mars_August (Mars August)

Sometimes when the yolk of my grief spills from its shell
I write letters to my dead parents in my journal.
I also write strange and desperate poems for lovers,
and prayers to the universe,
to-do lists, and death wishes
which are all kind of the same thing.

My socks never match, and I hate folding laundry
so I typically don’t, and the clothes strewn about
only bother me enough to think about buying a closet.
I almost never have company but I wonder
what it would be like to show someone a room,
devoid of clutter and decorated like ...

Hello,
You are called by someone else’s name
But, still, you recognize your own reflection in the distance.
You know that you are there, somewhere, and you are worth
whole palaces made of stardust stalactites,
troves of pink gemstones that pulse
as fast as your little heart.
The shadows take the shape of mouths at night and
you are so brave, you find ways to shield yourself from them
using no magic.
You are so brave, you taught us how to be our own
nightlight in abject darkness.
You are my Joan of Arc, you are not afraid.
You...

I came here as a Sunday morning,
too quickly
for your sleeping doctor to rise in time.
Your younger sister caught me,
in bare palms,
and you both laughed through awed tears.
She loves to tell that story, her
unpracticed hands
enough shield and cradle for two.

I do not ever ask where my father is,
or when he arrives to hold us both
because I also inherited our
hourglass wounds
from carrying a wedding bouquet
of someone else’s pain to my body.
And so if they want to leave, I let them
leave.

Mother,...

We used to make potions
her and I
The tub would swell with bubbles
Emptied the shampoo bottles
and our cauldron overflowed
Now she mixes dirt with water
in a little plastic cap
and then sews it into blood embroidery
Sallow lace, scabbing eyelets
I ask if it hurts
If I could follow pains gradient
to back before she became a seamstress
and we were two little witches
stirring pink magic in our tub
she makes one more eyelet in her hand
it is a gaping mouth that speaks in her place
It tells me that one day all I will...