Street Light Press
Street Light Press is looking for poetry that moves us. We don’t care for elaborate use of language--give us your real, your raw, and your intimate. The work that you write and hide away because it feels too fragile to share with the rest of the world, that’s what we want.
By Kate Lohnes
atop our dublin apartment a crash of blackbirds
curdled my body cuts
sharp lines in shadowed turf
on roof bedded you sprawl yourself
glowing there in sun’s soft syrup
each sprouted follicle lit and glossy
were there any love
you might have felt it then
i recall only erosion on the banks
of our anatomy how i let myself open
split to wounds of earth shifting
those shared breaths
steaming off me hot
as i paw fake grasslocks till sky
snaps in wineblack fury
like runaway kite or fighter jet hurling
slick tongue wet with promise
begging of me only ever
some moments are too viscous
to condense further:
i took one bite of sweetflesh
wet chin ever coiling stream
i formed a river of myself
Kate Lohnes is a senior at the University of Iowa studying Philosophy and Creative Writing. She spent time reading for The Iowa Review and has been published by the Iowa Chapbook Prize [creative work] and Encyclopaedia Britannica [academic work].
By Linda Rhinehart
there is a cold breeze in this place
the touch of the door handle under my finger-
tips is ice steel and silver
eons of loneliness inscribed in one touch
in the hours before wakefulness
the next day is warm but not
enough to dispel the breeze’s whispering
among the garish flowers
magenta neon and solemn geraniums
that line the polished funeral car
I try to shrink and hide from the eyes
of the breeze and from its silent laughter
among the cars cyclists and funeral-goers
but in the silence it recognizes me
with its unblinking never-sleeping eye
Linda Rhinehart is a poet, writer and translator who has been writing for almost three years. She first began writing when she was accidentally invited to a poetry festival and became inspired. Over the course of her life she has lived in the United Kingdom, Germany, Switzerland and the United States. She holds an MA in Translation and another MA in English Literature. In her spare time she enjoys playing piano and going on short hikes.
November 15, 2019
By Rachael Mayer
I remember breakfast.
The kitchen is more like a free floating box
than a room in a framed-out house,
a box suspended in ether
two out of three of us are dead.
and there's no relief
from an interrogating sun. The light
in the kitchen is so white
the edges of the room will singe—my
grandmother’s spine is so straight
she is like a lamppost
though her arms
and hands are busy, her elbows sharp–
she will be like this all her life,
tall and sinewy—
she has lots to say
though her back is turned.
My mother is looking at her back.
I see her round pale face, and her wintry
blue eyes—she is squinting,
somewhat frozen in minutes.
Her snowy curls are so sweet, so soft
like actual cotton flower—they camouflage
her anguish, her lost father,
abandonment in many episodes is preordained.
You can see how young she is
by the dimples in her hands.
There is a generous serving
of cruelty with her porridge
though it is of the
for your own good variety.
Half of me was there, a follicle.
Rachael Mayer’s poetry has appeared in The Kenyon Review, The Hiram Poetry Review, The Chattahoochee Review, Hudson Valley Echoes, The Avatar Review, Poetry Quarterly, Typishly and is forthcoming in Mothers Always Write. Ms. Mayer lives with her family in Montclair, New Jersey.