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March 6, 2018 / barton smock

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Jon Cone


My mind blooms
outside the pawn
shop window.
I am struck
dumb by knives
in their morgue
-like brilliance.
All I want is good
blade, an edge.
Some cool
distance from
my life, this sleet,
this rust, my shoes
that flicker like
sour flames
at the end
at the end of
the weird alley
where blood
goes to clot.



Adam Hughes


Sometimes the line between friend
and familiar is inconvenient.

I hugged him and felt his willow bones
growing out of my own roots,

exiting my skin. His bloodshot
voice echoed through me

like a windchime made from discarded
amulets, broken teacups, and the teeth

of ancient birds. After he left
I lit the altar on which we offered

our second fruits to keep ourselves warm
and sang along with the flames—

a song so hideously sacred.

buy Deep Cries Out to Deep:

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