ISSUE SEVEN: May Sell Tyres | next poem →

The Funeral

Jessica Schouela

I've never done this before,
nothing similar even that I can think of.
They didn't tell me how to prepare
to pour dirt over your body,
when you served me cantaloupe and pistachios
every Sunday, from the day
I learned to chew.

We asked many questions.
They said ask God not me.
We said we weren't sure
if we were "believers."

What do you believe in then?
The Internet, Fruit.
Channel that then.

I tried not to make this about me,
about self-esteem
or even about the world,

I tried to be small
so that the Universe could gobble me,
swallow me whole.

Jessica Schouela is from Montreal and is currently pursing her MA at UCL in Art History. She is based in Edinburgh and has been published in The Emma Press (forthcoming), Metatron, The Quietus, and Squawk Back, amongst others. She writes a blog called Cabbage Moths Lay Their Eggs On My Kale.

ISSUE SEVEN: May Sell Tyres | next poem →

ISSUE SEVEN: May Sell Tyres

Jill Khoury
   [posterior vitreous detachment]

Sonya Vatomsky
   Mouth-Off (III)
   The Serbo-Croatian language
      uses the same word, čičak,
      for burdock and Velcro

Kamden Hilliard
   no baby but the poem is about you

Jessica Schouela
   The Funeral

Chris Campanioni
   Working Models

Sarah Ann Winn
   Suburban Thaw
   Rolling Acres Mall, Abandoned

Cynthia Conte
   Number three star: Fast years

Diane Gage
   Dear John (Cage)

John Lowther
   a sonnet from 555

Rebecca Yates
   What is "Emoji"?

Glen Armstrong

Marta Ferguson
   The Nether as Pizza Parlor

September Hinkle
   Surviving Charlie