Today the sand is ridged. Lines that bleed toward the horizon. I take a steady stick of driftwood and draw a line for you to follow. You step onto the line. This line belongs to ocean. Where ocean slopes away on earth’s curve. Sky is just a backdrop. You want to know the distance, from where you stand in the sand to where blue and blue converge. Put love on a continuum. Measure the distance. Love is the length from the tips of your feet to the place the earth drops off. Convergence is understood. We are parallel, ridged, blue.
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We are happy to introduce Martha Clarkson as Word Riot’s new Poetry Editor. –WR STAFF How She Described Her Ex-Husband When the Police Called He’s the man who wants to live on Park Place but can only afford Virginia, the Pennsylvania line running through his backyard, fast as a chance. He’s the hat who owes a luxury tax. He’s a no-trump bid without all the aces. A queen finesse,eight ever, nine never, that fails to fallinto the dummy just right. He’s down a trick. Just call him Colonel Mustard, pinning Miss Scarlett against the conservatory wall but rubbing noses (literally) |
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