By Courtney Kampa
A man sits across from me, patterned silk padlock
at his neck and orders us whatever
people drink from…
at his neck and orders us whatever
people drink from…
Explore Poems: Loneliness
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- By Peter KlineIf we’re put here long enough, someone’s bound to learn something. The sweep of the second hand erases…
- By Cameron Awkward-RichIt is morning. Remember that.
It is morning and the house is quiet,
so quiet that I can, for the moment… - By Sarah Burgoynei say child but what i mean is now
still preferring the moss lawn to the
“superior” grass lawn my parents… - By Molly FiskYesterday I was so lonely
I could barely walk,
my friend being mobbed
by her grandchildren
as we made… - By Rickey LaurentiisWhy doubt I’d grow breasts a ‘Natural’ way?
Am I not ‘Real’ Flesh? Am I not enworthied sway
of that Biology? Not ‘Cis,’ you think me ‘alien’?
Loose? Do I so estrange? Wouldn’t I be, monstrous, the ‘Gorgon’
Lady with my two ‘new,’ added,... - By Elizabeth MetzgerHow much longer can we ignore the mushrooms?
Their shade is surprisingly matte
with no complexity. Why one is larger than another,
closer or farther apart,
I no longer think has any significance
for us
though so far we have let them live.
Part of me despises... - By Raymond LuczakYour voice translated me,
a lucid memory.
You videotaped my hands, words.
Now that’s all gone to the birds.
What led you to sign, to grasp?
Your fluency made me gasp.
You turned deaf to others sneering.
Your ears were so used to hearing.
Translate me one more... - By Kim StaffordI guess you could call me broken,
says one. I’m still lonely, says another,
but now I can name it with a song.
In my poem, says another,
I can forget I am forgotten. Now
I understand being misunderstood,
says another. And another says,
in a bold,... - By Anne SextonThe end of the affair is always death.
She’s my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Finger to finger, now she’s mine.
She’s... - By José Olivarezso when i walk down the street, i hold hands
with the wind. there’s a chimney coughing
up ahead & a sky so honey, i could almost taste it.
a cat struts away from me & two yellow eyes
become four: just like that,
i’m... - By Audre LordeFor those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at... - By Angel NafisKnow what the almost-gone dandelion knows. Piece by piece
The body prayers home. Its whole head a veil, a wind-blown bride.
When all the mothers gone, frame the portraits. Wood spoon over
Boiling pot, test the milk on your own wrist. You soil,... - By Gerald SternNothing by or for itself, the sound of
eggs hard-boiling in the hot water
echoed by the heavy rain that pours
down the broken spout, the cowardly lion’s
roar answered by the moos of the buffalo
the bloody mouth of the one
by the sharp and... - By Meg KearneyThe girl hunting with her father approaches
the strange man who has stopped at the end
of his day to rest and look at the lake.
Do you like geese? she asks. The man smiles.
The girl draws a webbed foot from her pocket
and... - By Camille RankineIn the half-light, I am most
at home, my shadow
as company.
When I feel hot, I push a button
to make it stop. I mean this stain on my mind
I can’t get out. How human
I seem. Like modern man,
I traffic in extinction. I... - By Dionisio D. MartínezTo the one who sets a second place at the table anyway.
To the one at the back of the empty bus.
To the ones who name each piece of stained glass projected on a white wall.
To anyone convinced that a monologue... - By Robert HaydenSundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.breaking.... - By Afaa Michael WeaverThe humid nights are best and worst, best
because the birds sing at two in the morning when
you cannot get back into the other world, worst
because it is the moist heat that makes the skin supple,
makes you want to rub against... - By Edna St. Vincent MillayWhat lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my...