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Editor's Note

APARTMENT

Throw the dishes in the oven.
Landlord knocking.
"If you girls are going to stay up all night,
keep it down. Too much traffic."

Bedroom above
lonely French professor
hearing my sex,
hating my music.

Lying awake,
dreaming of beds that don't squeak,
I crave music so loud it sinks,
heavy, needing to fill my space.

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SNR's Writers

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OHIO RIVER

At night it reminds me
of the time I spend alone
wanting to share
the gray-black water
with someone
who touches its silence,
depth;
someone who asks
which layer of skin I prefer
and knowing my lips
will move to say
the one that feels.
I lean back to watch the gulls
fly past,
the people laughing,
the eyes beside me
that see all that I am
without trying.

REAL POETRY

Write sometimes in my absence:
let this be your REAL poetry,
a passing thought
on empty 3 a.m. Streets,
an unexpected smile.
The utter fulfillment
comes from being
emptied of words- words
run from end to end,
thought to page.

These are all I keep on sleepless nights,
during morning calls from friends
who need to be complete,
and not-writing the real poems
in your absence:
my unspoken lines,
the better-left-unsaid.

I want to live in my mind,
mute, alone, surrounded
by Japanese cushions of words-
I feel easiest there,
familiar with the flaws.
I embrace these poems,
warm in my silent bed.

OUT THERE

In the rain-
abandoned playground
sandbox surrounded by
sea serpent.

I stand in the water he holds
on his back.
Puddles remember my feet
with blurry splotches
licking white sneakers
Clothes hang heavy,
cold stealing warmth.
Rain moments
before summer breeze-
everything sticks when it's wet.

I'M NOT AFRAID OF SHALLOW WATER

It is the deep,
knowing I could
want to be there.

Swallowed,
I could sink
where the surface
disappears.

Can I be a friend with motives?
Can I be a friend in fear?

Better to walk away
in the rain,
play in mud puddles
that don't steal
my breath.

I DON'T WANT HIS FINGERS

I want the strings
inside my belly trembling
to an unknown song

I want keys up my thighs
and the turn of my lips
to stay just curved
like the body he holds
thin wood moving
against his hips
feeding from his insides