The Literary Magazine of the Osterhout Free Library
My House
Micah Bauman
my house
is slowly leaving me
piece by piece
it departs
soon
I’ll have nowhere
to live
to sleep
my house is slowly leaving me
the wall left
It desired some time alone
the ceiling left
It reached an all-time low
the floor left
It couldn’t handle the pressure anymore
the door left
In search of greater opportunities
the roof left Continue reading “Micah Bauman, Summer 2016”
The neighborhood is still alive
Jeremy Nathan Marks
Who said anything about whistling while
you work?
But you can sing while taking out the trash
raking leaves or helping someone
with their car
With four walls and a roof and none of it
shared who said you’ve got to smile
and mean it when you say
Yes, ma’am
Save when you’re home
and playing that music loud
and inviting in whoever at whatever
hour
Firecrackers on the holidays
(and sometimes other days)
the dogs begging to lie on top of the bed
Other times beer bottles broke up
in the gutters Continue reading “Jeremy Nathan Marks, Summer 2016”
The Shipwright
Brandon Marlon
Gnarled palms sand burrs along the taffrail.
Satisfied, he faces the prow and sniffs the air
above deck, identifying distinct scents
of timber–white oak, teak, cedar, pine–
as he steps lightly over sawed lumber,
reeming irons, pitch ladles, and caulking mallets
to oversee the fill of fresh oakum
and inspect watertight seams
running from stem to stern
while tar dries and lightens in the sun.
He paces starboard to port and back
listening carefully for creaks in the planking
or framework groans from keel or ribs
until certain of a solid hull under his footfalls,
then rechecks every spar, joist, scantling,
davit, hatchway, Continue reading “Brandon Marlon, Summer 2016”
Wandawoowoo Wheezing
Kenneth Pobo
At parties Aunt Carla
was like a tea kettle
that someone forgot to turn off,
a whistle wheeze seizing
the couch. Usually I kept quiet.
Silence, a swing that I made
go higher and higher until
my feet kicked low-flying clouds.
One Christmas
I overheard Aunt Carla
tell my two other aunts
that I was dumb as turnip. True,
school felt like a shoe mom kept
trying to fit me into. All
I felt was the pinch. Mistakes
make me. Aunt Carla never
admitted to any. Relieved
when she died,
Continue reading “Kenneth Pobo, Summer 2016”
Blue Jeans
Mason Crawford
I still feel ill
saying your name,
Miss
Or I should start calling you Mrs,
Does your husband
Taste the thieving of innocence
On your lips
Feel my young
Round, boy belly
On your hands
Does he know about
Your hunger for children
Mrs
See it in your eyes
How you long for the
Feeling of
An eggshell body
So
Smooth,
White,
Fragile
Mrs,
I know you’re state’s away
But I can still feel your
Breath in the nook of my neck
Your spider hands
Crawling down my ribcage
The tug of the blue jeans Continue reading “Mason Crawford, Summer 2016”
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