Blanket Sea

Arts & Literary Magazine

Category: Poetry (page 2 of 8)

“The Giant’s Heel” by Lannie Stabile

My skull is beneath a giant’s heel
He rocks it leisurely back and forth
Across the clouded, chewed cement
Taunting, tempting and teasing me

A pressure has been culminating for decades

He bellows gleefully, foot poised just so
His titanic weight balances precariously
Above the weak skin shielding my temple
Smile wide, he depresses experimentally

Pain trickles through clenched, grinding teeth

It is whimsy to him, my life, my lucidity
Just something he can play with at will
While I can barely see or hear anymore
The giant Foxtrots atop my eyes and ears

Spittle leaks from miserable, bile-filled cheeks

There is bloodlust in his bulging limbs now
He tastes the terror licking behind my mind
A birdlike skull such as mine is merely dust
In the momentum of a heavy, cobbled boot

A soul ruptures, and one thousand screams flee


Lannie Stabile likens the process of creative writing to spanking ketchup:  grueling, but necessary.  More works can be found in MonsteringCellar Roots, Westland Writes, The Knight’s Library, and Wet Electric Blanket. You can find her on Twitter @LanniePenland.

“Box Spring Monster” by Amy Alexander

This monster under my bed is a mud woman,
dug from beneath the body keep,
creek water sauldered,
breakfast, lunch, and dinner breasts.

Belly, you’d think I’ve lived there
for how it pulls,
a thousand memories
I can’t quite capture
whisper vespers, suspect,
unsavory
Might savor me,
yet I am fixed,
and will not flee.

I would have no place, anyway,
if I did,
the 300-count sheet is thin,
over my head,
inadequate for shutting her out,
or is it them?
Gossip groups might issue
from one hoary mouth,
the collective can shun
or does it hold?

Oh, Mother,
you were inadequate in showing me the ways of women
as you warned me about men.

 

 

Amy Alexander is a poet, visual artist and homeschooling mother living in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, not far from the Mississippi River, which is very far from her hometown on the Colorado River, but still familiar, because of moving water. Her work has appeared most recently in The Coil, Anti-Heroin Chic, the Mojave Heart Review, Mooky Chick, The Remembered Arts, and RKVRY. Follow her on Twitter @iriemom.

Poetry by Lourdes Tutaine-Garcia

Falling in the Dark

Feel for the penny
when it’s flipped into a puddle,
rotating rapidly through air’s nothingness,
crashing into a solid that liquifies
then, sinking with slow sway
through water the consistency of jelly,
to land in mud,
       watery but not fluid
       grainy but not land,
       and what of the jagged things that feel like rocks?

With each flip, the world expands in grand whooshes
of uninforming blankness, infinite and barron.
Space distorts, stretching like rubber sheets,
unraveling time, contracting moments into lead pills
to ensure that although you are reaching out,
you are still startled when something touches you.

On contact, the objects around you
pop like soap bubbles into frightening clatters
as they fall aways from your touch,
although what you are seeking continues standing
an inch away, waiting to be birthed
into your consciousness from your touch.

You sit for a moment to gather yourself,
baffled at the mockery from your
       scraped knee,
       aching elbow,
       disoriented mind.

You wish for an empathetic magic
to replenish you with light
so you can illuminate the world
and forget to wish for sight
because you forget to rely on it.

 

The Fortune Teller

The girl unfolded her palm like a map
to have her destiny predicted
from crooked lines suggesting mysteries
best avoided in the flesh.

With age, the lines pucker,
casting minuscule shadows over fleshy plains
with crevices full of desiccated secrets
as if in remembrance of the minutes
she shed unnoticed like flakes of skin.

The girl (now woman)
arrived one day,
bandaged at the wrists.
Without hands, she sat
before the fortune teller.

Why did you not foretell this?
 What destiny is there without hands?

The fortune teller became a trance.
Without moving her lips,
she spoke the poetry of mystics,
releasing whiffs of incense from
the cavern of her mouth.

Roads of destiny do not have maps.
They are labyrinths of chances
where blind choices stand as answers,
and fate thrives in every blind spot.

 

 

Lourdes Tutaine-Garcia is Cuban by birth, American by citizenship, Cuban-New Englander by culture. Her laurels include a B.A. in English (Vassar College); M.A. in Corporate and Political Communications (Fairfield University); works that have been published in The Adanna Literary Journal, Avocet, The Hour, fiftywordstories.com, and Metafore; frequent readings at WBFY Poetry Woodshed and WBFY Poetry on the Bay. She was selected as one of the best prose writers in mid-coast Maine by BestLit Review 2018.

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