Issue #54


Rose & Road Signs


Tegan Beard

my dreams transcend me,

an out of body experiment in silence,

like tipping one head against the bus window

in order to look mysterious to someone you’ve never met.

needless to say, i never remember these soap bubble

faces as they float by.

last night, i caught hold of one by its tail,

a ball of dryer lint, a firestarter, and worried it open

below the light of my mother’s lamp.

my belly full of roses.

my mind snowed in.

i fragment this dust bunny, sifting

gold out of dirt, out of fog, into fog.

fog presses urgency into my hand and lets out a ribbit.

fog aches to speak but its mouth is filled with cotton.

fog so bloom-ed i can’t see the road signs you hold up. slow, love, that one says,

and then it’s all a haze.

i swear, i’m trying, don’t you know that by now,

every day i tip my head against that windowpane,

every night the fog drifts someone into my bed,

sometimes you,

my slow love, your breathing swollen in my ear ––

sometimes not.

sometimes foreign hands, foreign tongues,

dryer lint


The Father, the Daughter & the (war) holy Spirit