Church bells ring
on a street
in Mexico,
cars and guns flash–
a red stain
ragged hole shirt.

Yellow dandelion
candles glow
on a bedroom dresser,
through filmy curtains
piano music–
Debussy.

The sound sets you free
in turquoise water,
beneath pink flowers
the gunshot holds no fear.

going home
to blue bayou
a bullet always tells the truth

Susan Beth Furst

1956 saw my birth
and the devil’s rope gain ground.

I have yet learnt to fly
or succeed
where the movie star failed
to jump the wire
by motorcycle
in the Great Escape movie.

I did not leave a country by force only umbilically in a Chelsea hospital.

You left your motherland that year,
as I left my own,
and we returned together decades later to rust in old blood.

I was never really into boy bands. I mean, sure, I belted the lyrics to every Backstreet Boys song that came on the radio. And, okay, I had an N*SYNC poster on my bedroom wall. And I might have dreamt about running off to Hawaii with Taylor Hanson and those long, luxurious locks of perfect blond hair… But I swear, I was never really into boy bands.

climate change
the ice shifts
in my water glass

Elizabeth Alford

It’s like the blurred vignette on a doctored photograph. It’s like a doubled-sided headache without the ache, just an overwhelming sense of disconnect. Yet connections are made nonetheless. Answers to secrets of the universe reverberate in your veins, jumpstarting your brain, but damn! It’s like your body is running on empty.

By the way, the gas light came on and I need the car tomorrow. Here’s a twenty. Oh, and can you pick up like five of those fully-loaded burritos from that place up the street? Extra onions. Grab a bunch of those little packets of hot sauce too. Thanks.

like stale bread
and morning breath
the taste of a sneeze

Elizabeth Alford