four Fridays later, six
bloodshot eyes confront
eight boxes of hand-me-downs
& that one house sparrow with
the black goatee & white patch—
startled by the shattered glass
yesterday was about moving
ten years from floor two
to floor four—
a good work-out
today, the dusky dawn is
filled with a goose egg;
the fat house sparrow
chirps a question
followed by another starless night
& when the goose egg finally sets,
the sparrow & the owners lose
pulse of the feathery momentums.
Sanjida Yasmin is a poet, writer and an artist who lives in the Bronx, New York. She splits her time between the Long Island Business Institute, where she teaches English, and St. Dominic’s Home, where she provides therapy and finds inspiration for her work. Her poems have appeared in print and online journals, among them are Pink Panther Magazine, Peacock Journal, The Promethean, Nebo, Panoplyzine, Poetry in Performance and Anomaly. She earned her MFA degree from the City University of New York.
“Along the sidewalk,
always safest along the sidewalk,”
father used to say.
(A truck may swerve,
roll over the sidewalk
and pin you against
Still, always safest
along the sidewalk.
I wear my brand new pair
of Air Jordan while I walk
on the sidewalk.
and look and feel great
as the real deal.)
I’m safe as I stroll
with my shoes
on the sidewalk.
Karlo Sevilla is the author of “You” (Origami Poems Project, 2017). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Radius, Matter, Yellow Chair Review, Eunoia, Poetry24, The Ramingo’s Porch, Ariel Chart, In Between Hangovers, in the anthologies of Peacock Journal, Eternal Remedy, Riverfeet Press, and Azoth Khem Publishing,and elsewhere.
If you see me dancing don’t let me drive
he said back when he drank
till he could do the two-step with his eyes shut.
I followed like a blind woman
who lived by touch.
Last call we’d spin out the door
so dizzy we saw stars on saguaros
and coyotes in trucks. He sang their lament.
He knew it by heart.
I found the keys.
We drove without headlights until there was no road left.
It seemed like a lifetime dancing in the dark
from coast to coast and back again. Then we stayed home
till he dared to climb
the deep part of night alone.
It was like a cave with airless walls
where I searched for him. Only once did I hear
his shuffle on stone,
the scuff of a boot to a western song.
I can’t forgive him. Not now.
He knew I’d never learn to dance on my own.
Jan Day says she is fortunate to live in interior Florida where water and light come together to create a lushness, not only of the earth but also of the imagination. She writes in several genres including fiction and plays and has written five children’s picture books published by Pelican Publishing. Her poetry was most recently published in Peacock Journal. She resides in Okeechobee, Florida.