by Molly Smith

someone invented coffee because they knew mornings were meant to be slow
gritty and slow like the lingering smell of bacon fat in the kitchen
or the way the word “gravel” feels in your mouth

steam from a boiling pot catches dust and I haven’t seen the entirety of my soul
maybe I’ve peered the center, or the edges,
certainly not both.

it should be savored, like coffee dregs in the morning
like unbrushed hair and toothpaste spit
like how I read books on Saturdays and the way I pick at my skin until it bleeds

how can I be content without knowing it all?
with each green smell of morning I think I’ve come closer
but another piece blurs each time I take a sip

by Gloria Frym

not about the event but
the event is how
I like poetry to be

as for a martini
make mine dry
with a twist

is also how
I like
poetry

by Gloria Frym

“an asperity of expression”
you see once in print
though don’t speak

“her pugnacious contribution”
you wouldn’t repeat
you’ve never uttered
“eponymous” or “oeneric” but
reading “her pulchritude”

strengthens a flaccid
vocabulary
better than flash cards

“adamantine panniers”
would frighten
the toughest bike rider

by Gloria Frym

fear is animal
no other mammal thinks sure I’ll

strap this crap to my chest
and jump off the deep end

for the clan

martyrs, no one cares for them.
such desperation is hard to love

putting yourself in the path of
destruction purposely

blowing up children
no god would sanctify

it’s not written anywhere

the gods are terribly jealous
of self-imposed suffering

they insist on doing the work
alone