Grant Guy
The Waitress Brought Him the Menu
his wife threw him out
told him he was not handsome
told him he was not romantic
told him he did not earn enough
told him he was a bore in bed
pulling the pickup out of the driveway
like a thunder clap over the Prairies
loneliness wrapped him up in a sad embrace
embraced what little remained human in him
he drove numb
he pulled his vintage ford v8 into a truck stop lot
he sat at the counter 3 stools b/w him three burly truckers
they reeked of cigarettes & diesel & sweat
the waitress brought him a menu
her eyes sd welcome her heart was somewhere else
coffee she asked yes he sd
he paused his eyes lingered on the midnight angel
more than he should have he turned to the menu
the truckers returned to their rigs
a purolator driver sat at a booth by a window
jane a coffee & hot beef sandwich he sd with a wave
she returned to him asked are you ready to order
he tripped over his tongue uhhhh & blurted out blt
his eyes followed her she moved like a dancer
when she brought him his blt his fingers graced hers good gracious
he was in love for at least the next 30 minutes
he ate finished the last of his coffee with one gulp paid the bill
before he stepped outside into the cloudless night
he turned to look at her one last time
she was too busy to look up at him he thought a hapless hope
she handed a menu to the 16 year old trying to sober up
he stepped into the black night
loneliness kissed him on the lips
I love you it sd
Grant Guy is a Canadian poet, writer and playwright. He has over one hundred poems and short stories published in internationally and five books . His plays include an adaptation of Paradise Lost and the Grand Inquisitor. He is the recipient of many grants and awards.
Read MoreS.A. Leavesley
Rachel Bower
How to Speak of Grief
I break it to her gently. He was old, I say,
he had a good life, he was ready.
She stares back at me, waiting for more.
He won’t wake up again.
She drops her sandwich and howls.
Wracked with sobs, her body crumples,
small hands cling round my neck
as if I too might disappear,
wet face buried in my coat.
But I don’t want him to sleep forever.
I know, I weep, stroking her hair, I know.
Passing shoppers glance at the bench
where we cry for the city farm, for the field
that now stands empty, our apples left to rot.
Rachel Bower is the author of Moon Milk (Valley Press, 2018) and Epistolarity and World Literature (Palgrave
Maryam Gatawa
…And tell the stars
Then tell the stars
To take their leave too
For within our breasts
Shines the inward light
To sail us through
These fields of darkness
Why wait for the gardens to
Bear you sweet roses
Or rent the cloaks of your hope
To greedy mighty whales
Go forth with your hoe
And till the fertile land
Plant upon its face
Sweet corns and grapes
And when the winter knocks in
Tell her to stay
You have enough grains in your home.
Maryam Gatawa is a poet from northern Nigeria. Her works of poetry have been published in reputable journals inside Africa and overseas. She can be reached through facebook at ‘Maryam Gatawa’ and twitter @meegat12.
Jeri Onitskansky
Home Grown Poem
Bo’s trampled the bleeding hearts
and not for purely metaphorical reasons.
Squashed and pink in a mulch
of pig manure, passion’s illuminated
by mango martinis disguised
as garden lighting. Among bluebells,
a fern unfurls like a huddle
of Martians. Oh love,
love, what comes apart like
your white lies / white lilies?
Jeri Onitskansky is an American-born Jungian analyst and poet who lives and works in High Barnet. Her pamphlet Call them Juneberries was an IOTA shot winner and was published by Templar Poetry in 2015.
Read MoreBeth McDonough
Grassy Beach evening
Stalk between rails and the Tay
where light stakes out
any primped queen’s lace –
which might be jumped-up hedge parsley.
Touch columbine in scattered couch,
rip yellow vetch, unbutton tansies.
You’ll only hear high tide’s undercut
slap at concrete, slurp up steps.
Smell dog roses by the end of whins.
Can you remember feral apples
snapped round corners?
Your familiar frames the half-dark
slinks into almost possible.
Beth McDonough’s poetry appears in Agenda, Causeway, Interpreter’s Houseand elsewhere; she reviews in DURA. Handfast (2016, with Ruth Aylett) explores family experiences – Aylett’s of dementia. and McDonough’s of autism. She was recently Writer in Residence at Dundee Contemporary Arts.
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