“Alone and at Night”

by Eliana Sara

Do you remember when
We were walking late at night
And the streetlights went out

One by one
Like every horror film you’ve ever seen
At least that’s what you said
(I never went for those personally)

And we realized we were “city folk”
who are all marked by their shared fear
of complete darkness.

We ended up holding hands
and not admitting that
we were both more afraid than we should have been.

So you went to show off
following the path through the “forest”.
Really it was just a heavily tree-lined path
but to us, that’s a forest.

At home there is always some kind of
dirty, shady, (likely broken) light.
And even if they are orange and dim
our streets are never empty.

And we aren’t left to wonder
What’s crawling through the night
And if what we hear is human
Or something full of bright
menacing smiles and baring teeth
likely faster, stronger, than you
and hungry
for meat that’s fresh–
And you told me to stop.

I thought it was funny that I scared you.
I’m sorry I scared you.

Do remember we were sure we saw a fire
and you wanted to “check it out”
I had to admire your sense of adventure
(but now I think you just wanted to save face).

I reminded you of your horror movies
and told you that it was probably,
people trying to keep warm that night.
Besides all that, the leaves crackled loudly
and could easily give us away .

Then I had to remind you
as you were walking away
(because that’s the first it occurred to me)
that the cliché of
“straying from the path”
always ends badly.
And following lights past the dark
and through the leaves can only mean
that you wander off forever.

You went anyway
but I stayed.
When the lights came back on
I couldn’t see where you had gone.

###
Eliana is a Brooklyn based gal. This is her first piece of poetry appearing anywhere. Other writing has shown up in Ink magazine and Kitsch. She has a fairly new online literary magazine: http://thefuriousgazelle.com/

Birdbrained Emotions

by Jessica K. Hylton

They say to get over someone
You’re supposed to pick up a new hobby
And apparently the most cathartic
Are the hobbies where you make something
So you bring a woodworking bench
Past the film cameras, the roller skates, the bass guitar
And hope that a new birdhouse
Will take away memories
Better than the temporary
Reprieve granted by neon flavored shots
And long legs that walk in directions
You don’t really want to go

But one birdhouse only leads to another
A gateway carpentry
And pretty soon the whole living room
Is filled with 353 birdhouses
Then you realize you don’t even like birds
Fucking feathered freaks that shit on their own food
Why do they deserve to live in such palaces
While you can barely afford a one bedroom apartment
That smells of burnt out cigarettes and stale new beginnings

In fact you hate birds
You think about taking all the houses
Outside and lighting them on fire
To be rid of the clutter
But while you’re looking for matches
You run across a keepsake that you shouldn’t still keep
And pretty soon you’re staring at a blank text message
Trying to think of the right thing to say to the wrong person

Thinking honesty is the best option
You start typing out “I mis–”
But you can’t even stand to look at the words
As if somehow seeing them makes
Them more real and you know honesty
Is only appreciated by hearts that want to beat
Not by those looking for refuge behind walls

You throw the phone across
The birdhouse mountain range
And do the only thing you know
How to do at this point
Start on number 354

###

Jessica K. Hylton writes most of her poetry while driving. She has wrecked three cars, but she finished her dissertation.