After The Men Have Left

They take all the dictionaries with them.
They leave us with a stub of a candle.
They slam down all the hinges.
Sometimes our fingers get caught.
Sometimes we make up death penalties.
We stand close not touching.
We think our own thoughts.
We don't talk about the mess.
Sometimes we don't cry until
we have to get down on our knees
to clean under the toilet seat.
That which has been impure
will now smell just like lemon
even though the only fruit in the house
is blooming mold on its darkening skin.




The Anorexic High-School Senior

Wants nothing to do with the truly fully-
grown. Some deep evil lies
like lily blossoms on her heart.
Heavy, paper-white, trembling,
austere and effacing,
causing car accidents and coffee fits,
it wafts some moth perfume
up everyone's nostrils who gets within
a yard of her, who can smell Mr. Kurtz
on her, the scent of tropic fibrous
death malingering in her crooked spine
and her pathetic dressage,
her full-price, designer
Biafra junket.


Elizabeth Barbato was born in New England and now makes New Jersey home, where she teaches writing, drama and music. She has pieces in current or forthcoming editions of Apple Valley Review, Poetrybay, The Litchfield Review, Stride, Ghoti(fish),The Chimaera, All Things Girl, , Word For/Word and Cantaraville.