This is the one where I try to polish the moon with an electronic toothbrush. Its honey is an illusion but you don’t tell me that. This is the one where I try to put away my hands, planting them into starched pockets or hair that doesn’t screech when I chew it. I shouldn’t try to get rid of body parts but you don’t tell me that. This is one where I am clawing into a vacant lot, searching for a soul that could be mine. It feints before punching me in the face, telling me to get a hold of myself but you don’t tell me that. This is the one where I’m picking tart airplanes out of clouds, and they cave in your mouth but you don’t tell me that. This is the one where I was snapping crab legs at the beach, and giving them to you to roast, but my acid reflex is your brain and damn, I hate crab.
Farah Ghafoor is a fifteen year old poet and a co-founder/editor at Sugar Rascals. She genuinely believes that she deserves a cat and expensive perfumes. Her work is published or forthcoming in Alexandria Quarterly, alien mouth, Whirlwind, Moonsick and elsewhere. Find her online at fghafoor.tumblr.com.
Sarah B. Boyle
Before You Look at the Plan,
Ask Yourself
Farah Ghafoor
my bird/my body
Vapor Trail
Sarah Mitchell-Jackson
Camping
William James
Deconstruction VI
Alejandro Escudé
The Poet’s Ancient Cursor
Tammy Robacker
Afterglow
My Husband Grows a Rose
Hybrid with No Thorns
Janet Dale
Affecting Phenomena
Raymund Reyes
The Barker
Laura Carter
from Good Horse
KJ Hannah Greenberg
Politics, Like Sardines
Nancy Devine
Teaching