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stages of a factory~ By Molly Ide Marches

12/8/2020

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eternal steel monstrosity
bustling with belts
lined in ford's fringe--
fatigued, faceless hands
made to drudge
melting sand to sludge
in some long-lost land--
now rediscovered
by the two of us,
exultantly exploring 
this place once plagued
with toil and pain.

she the more mettlesome--
high heel neatly balanced
on rusted scaffolding
twenty feet suspended
above translucent mountains
of blue dusted in grey
of which we each kept 
our favorite piece,
our sole remembrance 
of our ethereal dystopia
to which I felt certain
we would one day return. 

now alone, 
guided only by dreams,
i try to return
to the same site--
drywall once fresh,
once vandalized,
then dust
blowing across the lot--
the same scaffolding 
carelessly crashed over 
once radiant mountains,
perhaps not eternal. 


Author Bio:
Molly Ide Marches is an Ozarkian shape-shifter and ineffable magician. A creature created of fog and dew, Molly seems never to sleep. Molly has been known to disappear for long stretches, then reappear unchanged. Molly has never answered a question directly. Molly knows nothing— but Molly's intuition never fails. Molly is a jack of all trades. Everyone knows Molly, yet no one knows Molly. Molly tried once, and only once, at love, and vows not to try again any time soon. People see Molly on a pedestal, but Molly has more in common with them than they think. Molly is human.
 
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Pushing Her Way Up College Hill~ By John Grey

12/1/2020

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She uses a walker now
but still, once a day,
climbs college hill,
balanced between the
warmth of the sun in her face
and the pains in her upper arm.
Students pay her no mind.
What she knows is irrelevant to them.
It’s all about what they don’t.

It’s no longer her heart
but her head that needs the exercise.
She laughs inwardly at some memories,
forestalls the tears
by debating, with herself,
the usefulness of grief.
A young man running for class
almost knocks her down.
He doesn’t stop to apologize.

She knows she’s getting on,
that she’s at an age when life and death
are interchangeable,
but she figures, if she can still
move about, she may as well take her pleasures.
Cakes from the bakery.
A glass of wine now and then.
Even a gossip with her neighbor.
And there’s the college lawn,
young people stretched out
with their books and each other.
She never had the opportunity to join them.
Factory work, marriage, motherhood,
a house to keep –
but, if she ever falls down on her walk,
that’s where she’d love to land.

But she doesn’t blame the life she’s led.
It kicked up some heels.
But it mostly bent to the task.
Romantic love came and went.
Obligation took its place.

The rage was intermittent.
The body did enough aching
for the rest of her.
What might have been –
it doesn’t bother her.
Too much to get her brain around,
too many recalculations,
like one of those GPS voices
when the driver disobeys
its initial instructions.
Another student zips past,
like the last, almost bumps into her.
But she doesn’t mind as much.
She’s getting closer to that lawn.


Author Bio:
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Willard and Maple and Red Coyote.
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Cat's out the Bag~ By Ashante Ford

12/1/2020

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She’s so soft and tender,
It’s no wonder they take.
She transfers her love into people who suck her dry,
A drop of blood and a bruised lip is the result.
She lets them inside, lets their words tell her body what to do,
She sits pensive and indecisive as their hands fall into places and things she doesn’t want to share right now.
“Just say no” is on repeat in her head but she can’t seem to utter the words.
She doesn’t want to disappoint them.
She doesn’t want them to un-love her because of this.
She comprises.
Folds herself in half to give a piece to them.
They can’t even see it, especially when they take.
Always grabbing and reaching for the shattered glass of what’s left of her.
Luckily for them, the glass is dull.
She’s left her body once again to please them.
Thank her when she leaves.
Thank her when she leaves.



Author Bio:
Journalist, singer, author and poet, Ashante Ford is a woman who believes that the complexity of words woven through scriptures can empower millions. Someone who laughs at the world’s distraught problems and abides by the four agreements. A queer woman who lives for love and understands that the route to happiness lies between the spirit and the soul. Here lies the words of a woman, unfiltered and extraordinary. Her work can be found on The 'Sad Girl Review' and on her personal blog; spirituallyajar.blog
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Tapping~ By Jasminstar Lysaith

12/1/2020

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Tap, tap, tap…
is the sound my bare footsteps make as I pace back and forth back and forth in my kitchen
thinking

Tap, tap, tap…
my innermost thoughts are trying to escape from the depths of my mind, begging for me to open up

I speak but no one hears me. I’m alone with my thoughts. I’m always alone.

Tap, tap, tap…
the footsteps continue
my pacing becomes more purposeful

With every new step is a new thought spoken out loud for the world to hear,
but is anyone listening?
I wish someone was listening

Tap, tap, tap…
my thoughts keep trying to break free,
but I keep them captive like a prisoner

I’m waiting for the right time
the right person
to let them out

but until then, I keep them guarded
only visiting them every so often

Tap, tap, tap…
they need to come out

the tapping never stops.

someone, please make it stop.


Author Bio:
Jasminstar Lysaith is a college student and a native of the Bronx.
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