darlings

November 9, 2018

find your horses and mount them/scream your name so they hear it
under the swamp/ we’ve lived
cold and terrible and gnashing/abundant, yet
keen

too late for you, tall man/ we’re
here with our own new torches/ long
ignited
strong

sour was your sentence
harrowed and false
interrogate yourself/real people say it’s
time

Tiffany Meuret is a writer and desert-dweller from Phoenix, Arizona. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in Four Chambers Press, Eunoia Review, MoonPark Review, Martian, and others. Find her online at www.TiffanyMeuret.com or on Twitter @TMeuretBooks.

Please follow and like us:

In category:

Poetry

How A Bridge Is Built

Click the link below to read Brennan DeFrisco's incredible poem, "How A Bridge Is Built." How A Bridge Is Built by Brennan DeFrisco Brennan DeFrisco is a poet, spoken word artist & educator from the San Francisco Bay Area.…

Approaching San Francisco

Like a handmade model to scale; even lines, finely painted details. There’s a spot on the Bay Bridge where the picturesque city looks not quite real: a postcard or seagull’s low-flying periphery. Any moment, a guy dressed like a giant…

complacency

Is telling the age of silent film to keep tongue-tied at the rise of the talkies. Is expecting a shining staple not to resist the fanged dentition of the remover. Is demanding a rainbow not to mourn the movement of…

Why Edward Kennedy was forgiven for the time he drove his oldsmobile into a pond

(after Richard Krech) The poppies that they gather only grow in blood soaked soil under dark mountain ranges. Every thing crumbles under the weight of these white washed walls and burned history books. No one remembers the call girl’s…

Pick Your Poison

“When it rains, it pours.” – Leslie Salt commercial Oy while a bomb cyclone pummeled New England, whipping the east coast with snow and bitter cold, waves crashed over sundry houses in Massachusetts. Boston had the highest tides in almost…

Last Rites at the Public Hospital's ER

That afternoon, I accompanied my cousin Dante, on his hospital wheelchair as we waited for a doctor to tend to his sprained ankle, when they wheeled in a 40ish man, half-naked, brown skin perforated with a dozen stab wounds, laid…