In my dream, you were naked–
I think.
–Your breasts and lips were drenched
in the scent of me and
I was
all over you.
At first it made you feel yellow
and new-
like a champagne flower
bubbling in the sunshine
— and then you were angry at me
for reflecting all the mean holes
in your prettyheart
“Prettyheart” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: Flora & Fauna by Jenn Mann
You would please me-
but—
Your graceful words
trip
on plump,
pickled
coughs
Artwork by Marko Koeppe and Vesna Pesic
opaque eyes
come to close
as the right
sick from the salted flesh of the left
retches
yearns for rest
while days
burdened by their broken toes
drag
slow
-Meaghan
smooth superiority
rusts in a steaming haze
bloats
until it explodes
He walks into the diner, alone, but he looks around.
Blue flannel and jeans, stringy brown hair, all 1990’s.
He sits in a booth by himself
Pushes his silverware out of the way,
And covers his eyes with his finger tips for a time
— Perhaps as respite,
Perhaps meditative.
His right leg bounces, dirty jeans,
Dirty under the nails, dirty tennis shoes.
He has ordered a coffee and a mimosa, but I can’t help think he is too young.
He feels a little better once he gets his food.
His leg stops shaking.
He smiles at a girl passing by, who doesn’t notice him.
“Diner Observation #1” by Vanessa Cate
Artwork: The Undone by Charles Wilkins
that touch of yours is as
dangerous as
I’d expected.
— timid hands begging to be held,
stroked,
loved
in a lightless room where
no one
can hear our thoughts and
my weakness is concealed.
And I know that when I do
press your gentle palm against my own for the first time
I will feel too much to think at all.
about infidelity-
about identity-
about selfishness–
and I will have to swallow
that dripping desire
that I try to
ignore
“Restraint” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: Self-reflection by Jenn Mann & Flux by Sarah Cannon
ankles rest in wrists
below knocked about knees
limbs weave
in
around
in
seeking sanctuary
alongside
lukewarm skin
A green eye nestled between faceless,
slate
stones
sits-
as lonely as a mountain.
Beaten, stained,
and abused
by the wandering wind,
it
crumbles into sand
that rests
beneath the heaviness of the ocean.
I am a rock.
“Along the Ocean Floor” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: Thief of the Sun by Tijani Djindjic
The Show Tell Project 