You see
her apricot shoulders
dressed with auburn wisps
that —drift—- drift
like feathers into the clouds above.
Hovering over your
hungry stares,
delighted,
she parts her plum, puckered lips
to free a stirring sigh
that breaks your body
and blurs your mind.
She
is the most heavenly dessert
you will never
taste.
“The Voyeurs” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork by Alicia Ortiz
A necrotized
claw has sprouted from the
neck of my favorite lace gown.
At first, it was a pool
of strawberry syrup
as bright and red
as a freshly skinned knee–
And then,
under the hanging tangerine fog of a Sunday afternoon,
it melted upward
into a
nagging,
sickled flower
of bloodless quiet
anticipating its reflection
in me.
“The Grim” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork by Sarah Cruce
eloquently espousing elitisms
suffocating pseudo sophistication
without effort
always at ease
slim and strong
slithering squeeze
round
around
immobilizing mild mannered mouthes
comfortably composed
enraging the unwillingly exposed
“Slither and Squeeze” by Meaghan Merrifield
Artwork by Oscar Gallegos
her grass ever green
linens crisp
clean
not a strand dares stray
nor garments fray
all that she is
coolly controlled
cleanly contained
by
her
pristine frame
Bodies in a blizzard
of heaven’s white
and
black of night
tangle and turn
in a cradle,
in a casket
where
her fragments of infinity
wallow then wake.
“The Beginning” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork by Hugo Barros
Sometimes
I am a striking rod of Violet-white–
shooting fast
through bombs of thunder and swollen rainclouds
on unsuspecting summer eves.
I am fleeting, but sharp.
an intense shock of brilliance and pain
that others fear
and admire.
But when the night implodes
in a mushroom cloud of fury and fire,
I too
become plain
and pale–
A Nothingspecial
floating, unnoticed,
through the day
like ash.
After the death
After the peace
are the gravestones
topped with fuzzy moss and sun-dried tears.
and
the slimy, felt moaning
of infinity–
rolling slowly into every coffin
and every urn.
There is no place but here
for there is no place
at all
“Afterdeath” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork by Hugo Barros
http://society6.com/hugobarros/nature-x_Print
there was a night last December
when your cherubic fingers
broke off
and slid into my ear
because they couldn’t bare to feel for you
anymore.
Your parts,
like me,
know that you are more
than they are–
grander
and meaner
cleverer
and more masterful
but you
can touch no one
without them
” Your Parts” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork by Jesse Trees
The Show Tell Project 