Who?

Hello, all!

I don’t post much here anymore. I’d like to work on that. But, while I’ve been away, I’ve been working with JuxtaProse Literary Magazine. JuxtaProse is having a poetry contest that I thought some of you might be interested in. 

Here are some details: 

“CONTEST OPEN: April 1, 2016

DEADLINE: May 31, 2016 $500 and publication in JuxtaProse Literary Magazine will be awarded to the winning poem. Up to three additional poems, each by a different author, may be awarded “Honorable Mention” status, for which they will receive $50 and publication. All finalists will be considered for publication. Poems must be previously unpublished.

An entry fee of $15 applies. Entries should consist of 1-3 poems, and each poem should be no more than 50 lines. Authors may enter multiple times but will be charged an entry fee each time. Students, and those previously published in JuxtaProse Literary Magazine, may submit for a discounted fee of $10.Winners, including the first prize winner and any honorable mentions, will be announced on or before 5:00 pm Mountain Time on August 1, 2016.”

For more, visit http://www.juxtaprosemagazine.org/contests/

Happy writing! 

I am scared like lightning,
of an afterthought.
A bird fallen from the nest,
flight still fresh on my lips
when I hit the ground.
My punctuation marks are bloody. 

I’m a mermaid, but only part-time. I guess there just aren’t a lot of full-time mermaid positions available in Idaho. I struggle to fill the demands of my position in a landlocked state, but I scrape by on a room full of seashells and sand dollars. This is the only job I’ve known since my wind-soaked skin felt saltwater for the first time. Yet, I am a mermaid who’s fought the sea god, my creator. 

He was never a sea-faring man, but his temper was as turbulent as the sea in a storm, crushing little boats beneath his heavy, salty hands. My father is an almost Poseidon, but there is a difference between Poseidon, the sea, and my father, the ocean drowns all sailors just the same, but my father only ever hit me. Perhaps confusing me for a siren who drowned his favorite sailor he would leave whirlpool bruises to show his displeasure. The land would not have me, the god of the sea would kill me, and I am drowning underneath the weight of both, licking lips of salt and blood. 

I remembered ice today. 
Cold wind took root in my chest,
and the sun was like a song
playing in another room. 

Our bed must always be big enough for three.
I will see things that are not there, and wake you
crying when burglars in the form of potential changes
to my little body home drive me from our bed to the mirror.
Other nights it will be like the house can barely contain
my flesh. The boards will creak and my seams will stretch,
while you eat your sandwich oblivious to the possibility
of my guts spilling out from my too small frame.  
It will not make sense when I begin to cry, but by now maybe
you’ve learned that the same culprit is almost always to blame.
When you hesitate before calling me beautiful I will try 
and remember that it’s not because you don’t believe it,
but because you’re afraid I’m lost somewhere where beauty
is only a distraction and a thief. 

Let’s leave ghost paintings on the apartment walls, an art gallery where we are the only visitors and critics. I will fly to you on a cold October evening, my footprints like brave little birds pressing forward in a storm. Years from now when I walk by on my way work and the creaking stairs to your place match the sounds of my bones when I run too fast; I will remember the way your shoulder blades pressed into the canvas walls like shivering wings.

All the autumn’s are dead, nestled beneath
the cracked ground wrinkles of your face.
The dead leaves beneath your tongue
seep out as you ask for more time,
but they are building an empire 
from your bones.
Where snow may gather, colder than you,
but just as dead.