by Anastasios Mihalopoulos

Photo by Öz T. on Pexels

Here, at ocean’s mouth, I pour and pray.
Sea-water sloshes its tongue on the shore.
Scent of barley and burnt honey vex the air.
Urge the dead to drink from my cup.

I bleed a sheep. Black night
pours from its throat—the spirits come.
Clamor of armor and footsteps fill the beach,
men I could not save. Worse sounds came

from those I could have—from you
standing there, hair turned silver, an opaque gloom
running through your skin.

by Matt Schroeder

art by Emmanuel de Witte

the only thing worth worrying about
        is a palmful of honey on a summer day
                 or the heart         hot as an eggless pan

        if it doesn’t make sense make it over-easy
make it so sweet men would die for it
                     make it in the image you were made in

whispers believe said-image is who you loved most
                        in your last life which could have been
      

by Ben Stoll

art by Camille Corot, 1865

Eighty dollars.
To a child: a King’s ransom.

I see the price tag dangle from hemp string,
the glass figures cut the sunlight
and slice it across the checkerboard.

They look like diamonds however,
strong enough to cut my teeth on.
With no one looking I take a pawn

and bite.

I collect my broken teeth
and tumble them in the sand by the stream.

8 years old, cuticles rubbed raw and bleeding,

by Daniel Felsenthal

art by Alfred Stevens, 1888

Morning dreams
Of a swollen hour
What’d you smoke,
Who’d you do?
Time as a unit of distance,
In which it is
In so many ways, used.
Walk cul-de-sacs
Just to stay still, energetically:

Bar with light slatted
Through door
Sun hiding behind
So much blue
Bed risen with sound:

Last night’s snack
Is still being enjoyed
Somewhere
In your body.