“Quiet” he said and put his hand on my mouth.
His other hand stroked my hip
and I was
for a time
Later, I thought about the blasphemy
of silence, its betrayal.
it feels calm.
Even the thought of snow’s silence
or the silence of blood drops
for the stem of quiet to grow long
and silence to flower
like a pale
is a fool’s errand.
Take a large fistful of time,
stand at the edge of the ocean.
Soon you won’t know
if it is fabric
Cut out the noises of traffic
and you are left
with a life
that puts drought-
plagued deserts in your
open hands and longing
like salted caramel
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The four of us were at the back of my house smoking weed when Chris said, “Yahoo is the only way out of our present situation in the country.”
My brother and I used to get excited every morning because our parents left the house for work, and didn’t return until five in the evening. When this happened, Chris, our neighbour from down the street, would come over with his brother, Chike. They’d walk to the back of the house, where I and my brother would join them to smoke weed. This was our routine in the early days of my college years.
As we sat on that particular day, rolling the remains of our previous day’s stash, while trying to decipher the lyrics of Jesse Jag’s “The Search,” Chike said, “I think this weed got more concentrated overnight.”
“Keep quiet, you have a light brain,” my brother said in a subdued voice. Chike fumed as Chris made that statement, and I turned around to see my brother watching Chris, his joint limp in his hand.
My brother was always like this when Chris spoke. He looked up to him and I like to believe this was because Chris – instead of me – had introduced him to weed and other vices.
Poem of the Week
who have experienced
on a large
i tell raif
i think my
might be dead
haven't seen her
& her car hasn't moved
for two weeks.
you would smell it
passing me a plate
of triangular shaped bread
slathered in jam.
Story of the Week
DARLEEN SQUEELED into the empty spot as soon as the gleaming white Mercedes pulled out. "We got lucky," she told Montana. "Even on a Monday night, this lot is killer."
Montana rolled her big blue eyes. "Whatever."
The eleven year old had better things to do, like text her friends. Incessantly, as if she had a tic. The kid hadn't wanted to shop tonight, but Darleen insisted. This was their first Christmas without Paulie and the girls needed to stick together. Darleen's ex had been nasty lately and mediation had hit a cement wall. Montana wasn't aware how dangerously close they were to losing access to Paulie's vast and unreported wealth.
Montana sighed dramatically as she yanked open the door of the Porsche Cayenne and tumbled out. She didn't pause in her texting.
Darlene checked her face in the rearview mirror. The most recent fat transfer had been wildly successful. She loved her new lips. Grabbing her Gucci bag, she hopped out of the front seat.
Her daughter trailed her into the mall, thumbs flashing on her phone keypad.