by Liz Thurley
Photo from Liv

 

April 13th

Editor’s Letter:

Welcome to Late Night Poetry Club, a weekly collaboration of poets & spirits providing different viewpoints on one overlying theme. This week’s theme is “firsts.”  As every girl may know, this time in our life is a time for new experiences. Triumph and heartbreak are just two words that we have become acquainted with in this very strange part of life. No matter how disconnected it may feel to be young, it is the time of action. Don’t forget though, no one learns to run without skinning a knee or two in the process.You are not alone in your clumsy stumbling, little fauna. We are all newborns here and this is a world of firsts, not lasts.

All my love,

Chey

 

the day my grandmother thinks is my birthday

i wear a pink lace dress and shoes

like valentines and my lipstick

consumes a boy’s jaw in my leopard-sheeted

bed like he’s been feasting on the carcass

of an animal, my nails painted silver

bullets, i hunt while you gather, my softshell

removing itself from the room and leaving

me alone with my live wire nervous

system, my shotgun column throat,

and my muscles, adrenaline-trembling

in hummingbird heartbeat rhythm,

peeling back each of their layers

as if in response to a wound.  

– Rae Purdom

 

Forgotten is the bed stained with saline, as

Is the freshly cut-open dignity of a sixteen year old girl

Regretting the full moon’s glow.

So is the condom stuck to the carpet and

The first line he carved into his bedpost.

 Hailey Hartford

 

pushing back my cuticles,

the way my pulse races when i’m high.

shaving my legs and combing my hair with my fingers

running as the wind propels me along – 

unexpected rain hitting the frames of my glasses,

dripping onto the skin below and

sticking the hairs of my eyebrows together at odd angles.

the creak of old wooden doors in battered country houses that

sit on acres and acres of land

the warmth of rising steam

and how wrinkled our toes get in the bath.

skinny ankles poking one another.

my throat closing up

craving moisture

plucking out feathers

your chest against mine

silk bathrobes and

the sun on my skin skin skin skin skin and me

red and raw

-Cathi Beckstrand

 

your neck is one of my favorite

parts of you

to hold with my right hand

so my thumb skims your jaw

and my fingers sneak into your hair like

this feeling

snuck into my flesh

when i least expected it 

but should have seen it coming

why didn’t i see it as

i clutched your shoulders

and noticed freckles

pressed to my palms

when i wanted to 

lick them to see 

if i could taste the sun

how could i ignore

my lips leaving bruises

if i felt them throb 

in time with the blood 

rushing through you

as you fucked me

when did i forget

those shivers in my spine

mean i care

more than i can swallow

with my sandpaper throat

so now i’m choking on

this feeling

it fills my silence with

tension, tempting words

i’m too insecure to 

say or too proud to 

acknowledge

it’s tangible when

i miss the softness of 

your skin and of 

your voice when 

you murmur things

fuelled by sailor jerry 

and a fear of being alone

i taste it when 

your name spills

from my tongue

sounding more like an

unanswered question

than the name i

moan in bed

but i don’t know

this feeling

it’s as foreign to me as

having a father or

a sense of self-worth or

the ability to act 

selflessly

i keep my distance

but i still feel it coil and

tighten around my rib cage

so i just try

to find comfort 

in the pressure

-Sarah Freemyer

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April 13, 2013