My epaulets were branded game,
held aloft in the corridors beside
nuclear deterrents. Carved bâton
percé into my ironed creases and
the blood on the inside of my lip.
Do you bite through your memories?
Chew the vestibule in nervous wait?
Anteocularis fell before my eyes
as I was reminded of the first note.
– Aaron Kent
Falling through the skylights,
Your triolets wouldn’t open properly,
Unkempt yet unmitigated. Did I ever
Go pulse-less in your mind? End
The alley of happiness on purpose?
Too light already to go faded.
Much too forgetful to write good prose.
– Mark Yakich