talking to the ghost
who speaks in tongues—
flames indulged
and torn in two
 
          *
 
pulled down
among the darkness
from where I came
and where I’ll go
 
          *
 
a game of chance—
you laugh in my face
as you drown
in the River Styx
 
          *
 
the impact was red—
orange mixed with light
fallen in a cryptic grave
and saved for many lives

Stages of Grief
by Joan Leotta
 
The first week
My world is spinning
"That's nothing, the world always spins,"
 they tell me.
"They" always know best.
Their world is fixed
on its axis, firm and sure
Mine has lost its axis,
whirling and twirling
out into space,
out of control.
I am oblivious to all but my loss.
 
Three months after
I am quiet
when I used to laugh
Sad
when I used to be pensive
Still awake
Late into the night
Talking to a picture,

p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Courier New'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000} p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px 'Courier New'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 12.0px} p.p3 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Helvetica; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000} p.p4 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Helvetica; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 13.0px} span.s1 {font-kerning: none}

Amidst an enormous cycle of pla

UNTANGLED
 
 
“Please let my hair grow, Mother, don’t cut it.
A trimmed tree
Is no place for song birds.”
                                     -Anonymous: Landeys