#Poetry Wed: “About Suffering” by David Lucas

“Icarus is not for us.
He flies and falls, that’s all. He doesn’t joke
to hide his fear, or seem ashamed…

He’s young and proud. He likes the sound
of his own voice. Of course the world must break
and scatter him among the falling birds.
It’s never him. His father, Daedalus—
he’s our muse, bent to an unforgiving craft
in someone else’s labyrinth, the dark
exile in which he sets himself to work:
letting the candles gutter so the wax
spills, seals vane and down at quill and shaft,
working longer into the thankless night…”

Read the rest of the poem at Threepenny Review.

​#Poetry Wed: “Courses” by Mariama Lockington

​”what table set of your bone
what silver what flesh
dream of your throat
what melting what flavor
cumin currant coconut

your clavicle mantle for my mandible
what wishbone split cracked and tasted
rooms and rooms of your marrow​…”

​​Read the rest of the poem at Washington Square Review.​

#Poetry Wed: “Social Contract” by Rachel Willems

“The politeness, not leaving any butter in the jam,
or jam in the butter, or shoes in the hall.
Not leaving any residue of who did what. Not leaving,
for that matter. One glass of wine while I make dinner,
while I rub our cut of salmon with honey and salt,
you read me the news—our division of labor…”

Read the rest of the poem at The London Magazine.

#Poetry Wed: “Self-portrait with Hawk & Armada” by Emily Skaja

“Oh hawk after hawk over Indiana are you watching

me break up on bed after white bed sobbing doing all
the dishes except the one his mouth touched burying

my grief in the thaw-wet yard turning mud
into water miraculous What are you here to collect?

Permit me my report. Spring I can see is in full effect
allowing grassreedswildriverbirchfloodplains & even robins

are compelled by the way this broke the hell out of that’s ripped heart.
Slow. I’m taking it with Ecclesiastes. A time for a time for a time….”

-Read the rest of the poem at Black Warrior Review.

#Poetry Wed: “My Mother’s Cars” by Alison Jarvis

the cold. Her cars. Her famously
bad driving.
My cousin Tommy once rode
a hundred miles on the floor
because he was too terrified to chance
a look out the window. Even my husband,
my new, second, husband,
whose calm, judicious nature
my mother and I both loved,
threatened to jump out the door
on her high speed town tour.
The new city hall! The municipal pool!
My mother applying lipstick
in the rearview!…”

Read the rest of the poem at Upstreet Magazine (pdf)