Tarot Rani

— Natalie Wee, from ‘Either/Or/Other’, Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines (x)

Memories of you are stuck between my nails. Clawing you out is a pain that is difficult to endure I could write odes to our battles but they still wouldn’t be bloody enough to paint the kind of wreckage that we left behind There is a tombstone where my strength should’ve been. It says “In loving memory of what was robbed during the war” - ar

Maybe you will wake up tomorrow and find your love for me underneath your pillow. Maybe you’ll say, “I’m sorry darling I had forgotten I couldn’t sleep without it”

I had already written an ending and hidden it in poems; between words that spoke of undying love and the relentless chase of fate that breaks lovers who still think the violent protests of their hearts are enough to win gods over

an outpour I couldn’t have anticipated

You are picking at my seams without touching me. My vice has always been to believe words. Words; a variation of mere alphabets that will strike me or bring me to my knees to offer myself to you. Is it not a contradiction to offer residues of yourself to someone. But I suppose it is a desperate silent prayer of love and acceptance and wholeness. How lucky are those whose parched mouths are kissed and whose souls are filled to the brim. How lucky are those who bare themselves and are loved in return.

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— William Evans, from “Acres,” We Inherit What the Fires Left

(x)

“Fruit” by Azra Tabassum  (@5000letters)

— Jeff Latosik, from “On the General Being of Lostness,” Poetry: New Canadian Poets Issue (December 2017)

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