Rose
My love our union is a rose,
A planted bulb in frozen soil,
Withstanding winters frigid toil,
Withstood till warmer spring now grows.
Grows up and up it's thin green sprout,
Emergent from it's nurtured bed,
No white flowers or bloody red,
The infant stalk did fine without.
Then swelled the bud still meekly green,
by it's gardeners watchful care,
About the core of radiant flare,
Concealed and eager to be seen.
Seen and beheld the green dismissed,
the petals now are neat and tight,
Aglow by day, curled up by night,
It's sweet appeal when absent missed.
Like all else 'twill wilt with age,
And turn to earth and decompose,
The saddest thing about our rose,
It can't be pressed onto a page.
- Garion Bracken
BREAKUP
sneaks clusters behind paper
eats the substance of a poem
leaves traces of authenticity
filtrates silk lingerie left damp
in drawers spoils photographs
makes holes in ideas of lineage
engulfs documents that might tell
tales leaves opaque blotches, stains
on clothes
- Sarah Strong
demolishes glue making books explode
silverfish
reach with their tentacles,
track after sugar, scrape seams —
Artwork by Tom McElligott