Word Fountain

The Literary Magazine of the Osterhout Free Library

Nadine Ellsworth-Moran, Winter 2017

Ballet Class
Nadine Ellsworth-Moran

“Find a spot on the wall,”
she would say in a labored
German accent too heavy
for her frame.

“Let your head lead,
and your body will follow.”
Her words spinning with me.

She claimed to be
a baroness,
and I claimed to be
a dancer.

Your spot is your anchor, Continue reading “Nadine Ellsworth-Moran, Winter 2017”

Saddiq Dzukogi, Winter 2017

Why I Will Enjoy Being a Girl
Saddiq Dzukogi

I’ll be unrestricted to leave
my face inside a mirror

for more than a minute
and nobody grows suspicious

I might like the boy next door
in fact I will love the boy next door

and mother will think it’s ok
what difference does it make now Continue reading “Saddiq Dzukogi, Winter 2017”

Daniel Edward Moore, Winter 2017

The Origin of Trouble
Daniel Edward Moore

Memory can always be something more
if reality doesn’t stand a chance:
a hooker dressed up like a Franciscan nun
feeding bread to the pigeons and poor.

Going there daily in my habit of relief,
dragging the past like a rosary chain
used to pull truckers from ditches of despair,
from beds gone Arctic and wives gone AWOL.

Maybe this is the origin of trouble— Continue reading “Daniel Edward Moore, Winter 2017”

E. A. Feliu, Winter 2017

Monday Morning
E. A. Feliu

Head mired in mud,
swaddled in swamp moss.
Atrazine mouth,
throat itching
like a country mouse.
Tongue slithers in sand.
The day assumes the tone
of a metronome.
In fits and starts,
the week lurches forward
like a musket ball

shunting deer heart.

E.A. Feliu is an author, artist and journalist in San Diego, California. He is the author of Postcards from the Tattooed Man’s Chest.

Mary Kavanagh, Winter 2017

A Dog’s Life
Mary Kavanagh

My dog likes to play games
Like chase, fetch, and eat the slipper.
There’s another game called “If you go out
Without me I’ll trash your room.” Continue reading “Mary Kavanagh, Winter 2017”

Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad, Winter 2017

Red Fox
Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad

He called the red fox cunning,
in demeaning tone, critical of the
trustless mammal with limb bones,
as if he were not the huntsman
with no fixed abode, shadowing
untrained prey late evening,

leaving carcass abed early morning;
flesh unsuspecting, martyrs long
for the feel of his brilliant fur,
tiers of red, unsteady shades like
manic waves of fire,
veiling the scope of his skin Continue reading “Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad, Winter 2017”

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