the night of the attack
mother did you hear them
they had tongues like lightning
and forked through the forest
shooting the heads off sparrows.
mother did you see their
bonfires
The man keeps thinking about the power lines—the ones that are strung over his house.
Sometimes at night, he can hear them up there, buzzing.
It's hard to sleep with all the
I don't like most people. And have been jealous of Bud for ages. With reason.
Subtraction, division,
rabbit bones, rabbit lives
They never seemed to notice me, not even when I rolled up my uniform skirt, like the other girls did, and walked the stairs in front of them.
sometimes i wake up in empty fields, waiting for the aliens to take me. they haven’t yet, but any day now, i’m sure.
I’m in the parking lot, I’ve got Sarah’s prescription, Sarah’s my wife, and I see him.
Osama bin Laden.
We went to the college up north to get away from our families, but we didn’t leave behind our need for something like a domestic bond.
And somehow I’m supposed to get dressed in the morning / when most days arrive like a gold chain tangled in black chest hair.
Aaina’s mom collects shiny things like a magpie. The one time Aaina sneaked me into her house, I walked past rows of gold photo frames, silver handicraft elephants and raindrop chandeliers.
“I saw you by the river last night,” Amy says, her eyes still closed and half-covered by strands of almond-brown hair. “Why didn’t you follow me?”
You will etch your name in the most lunar dust. This world / may be large enough for none of us, saddest darling.
They laid out their sweat-stained clothing while the geyser was quiet, placid. They backed away and waited for her to erupt.
There was no doubt in Bea’s mind that they referred to the geyser as “she.”
It’s simple, really. / You, like the other yous / are gone, returned to the God of metals.
Too Tired For Sunshine is a photobook by Hobart's own Tara Wray, to published by Yoffy Press in March 2018.
From the publisher: "In Too Tired for Sunshine, Tara Wray confronts depression by
After being hospitalized in 1968 / for an aortic aneurysm, Rothko’s doctor / prescribed that he only paint and draw / on mediums less than three feet tall.
And what is essential for me to believe is that / the plants themselves were changed by Joan, / that bathing with her in the light and fragrance
spirits in the trees / hush love hush love / go’on fly home
I am glad to report that the Great Iowa State Fair Haiku Contest was a roaring success.
On this poorly planned excursion I had a bucket of coffee and exactly one CD – my brother’s copy of Death Cab’s then brand new Narrow Stairs.
It’s bronzy August and I need this to be all over. / Most of my poems are shaped like crows, / so what’s eating you?
A man spills a red solo cup down my shirt like hands. Hands bury in my skin. The speakers bury in my skin. I have never felt farther from the sky, or from my own spit.
I smile into the mirror. There is lipstick on my front teeth. I don’t rub it off.
every great sadness has occurred because someone / decided fate with their bare hands.
