37

I Am Stretched On Your Grave

(After O’Connor)

By Josh Medsker

Oh! The loss of my girl. I’ll lie here forever.

I am worn by the cut of the black-thorn

in my head, with you

my lightness, my worth

safely in the earth.

Oh, my apple tree, the frost

gave us a child, taking you.

I am stretched on your grave.

That loved smell of weather?

Our bright-touched time together?

Do you remember the eve

when from morning until night

we were lost in my bed, in the shade?

Oh, here forever, I am wretched.

I am stretched on your grave.

Josh Medsker is a New Jersey poet, originally from Alaska. His debut collection, Cacophony, was published in 2019 by Alien Buddha Press. His writing has appeared in many publications, including: Contemporary American Voices, The Brooklyn Rail, Haiku Journal, and Red Savina Review. For a complete list of Mr. Medsker's publications, please visit his website. (www.joshmedsker.com)

May 15, 2020

Calvino

By Josh Medsker

You curse her detention in the hostage camp
turn her face over to see the scars
watch them shoot your father. He lives.

You watch as they

pull the trigger again
again

he lives.
 

watch her stoicism in the face.
watch as they

pull the trigger again

again, again he lives.

You hide your literary ambitions
camp out in red mountains- refuse to lock-step.

You are staring down a mountaintop
unsure of the outcomes.

Josh Medsker is a New Jersey poet, originally from Alaska. His debut collection, Cacophony, was published in 2019 by Alien Buddha Press. His writing has appeared in many publications, including: Contemporary American Voices, The Brooklyn Rail, Haiku Journal, and Red Savina Review. For a complete list of Mr. Medsker's publications, please visit his website. (www.joshmedsker.com)

The Fire at the Glasgow School of Art

By Patrick Hughes

That night the city was a children’s birthday party

and all the people were batting a steel piñata.

One jet of water stuck out against the night,

pinned against one side of the school,

pitching and yawing in the wind like a needle skipping on a record.

I lit a cigarette and thought: it’s funny,

that sometimes you have it and sometimes you don’t.

One woman (a teacher) hugged some of the students that were huddled

around the street corner in their strange clothes, not far from their accommodation.

Said something about how she thought it was all a joke,

a publicity stunt on twitter, but look at that

and last time they could contain it

but there’s no way that they can contain it this time.

The black smoke began to plume, which meant that it was almost over,

and camera crews began to pack up their kit;

but the sky was still orange directly above the building,

and the cinders shot out over the scaffolding like 

a car battery hooked up to a corrugated iron fence.

Patrick Hughes is a freelance journalist by day and a bartender by night. In his spare time he enjoys writing, singing and playing guitar.