Friday, March 29, 2019

Selecting a Reader

after Ted Kooser

She is as naked
as I am and passionate
about show don't tell.

Short, Fast, and Deadly (defunct) - Winter 2013

Saturday, March 23, 2019

There Was Pink on the Roof

It was dusk and I could see pink on the neighbor’s rooftop
out the living room window from where I sat at the dinner table.

The boys were watching baseball on TV. I could hear
that the score was close and the right team was winning. 

Normally, I would have been watching the game
with the boys, but that night I was at the dinner table,

it was late, and I could clearly see the fading pink
on the roof of the neighbor’s house.

She was talking when I got up to take a shower.
She was saying something to me. 

I finished my shower when all the hot was gone. 
The wrong team had come back to win.

The curtains were drawn over the living room window.
I sat at the dining room table. It was late.

I tried to figure out when it was
I’d shrugged my shoulders for good.

Friday, March 8, 2019

A big round belly stretched nine-months tight

with a smudgy brown
longitudinal line
running up the globe of it,
shiny thin spider webs
pulled over and around
its snare drum circumference,
the occasional anaconda slither
just beneath the surface,
the every-now-and-then cartoon sock
from the inside bulging out,
and that odd little button
popping out in the very middle –

this is beauty.

The Smoking Poet (defunct) - Spring 2012

Friday, March 1, 2019

Galleywinter - #15 - Alexis Rhone Fancher

Mixed Signals 

Look, I know lust when I see it. 

Those nipples poke through her T-shirt 
like it’s my birthday.

Tonight, I’m ripe for forgiveness.
Tonight, she’s hardwired for love.

So when she asks me to sleep in the spare room,
makes up the futon, brings me a pillow from her bed,

I’m on high alert. 

She knows that pillow exudes her perfume,
but she gives me the cold shoulder,

rebuffs the kisses she once savored, 
when she licked her lips for the taste of me.

Don’t, she warns.

Her mouth says one thing – her body another.
Now she’s a waiting conversation; I’m the lame excuse.

If I were a man she’d tell me to keep it in my pants.
If I were a man, perhaps she’d treat me better.

Tonight, dozing at her feet, 
I fall again for her painted toes - 

her impossibly high expectations, 
the crushing payback of her heel.

Alexis Rhone Fancher is published in Best American Poetry 2016, Verse Daily, Plume, Rattle, Diode, Pirene’s Fountain, Tinderbox, Nashville Review, Wide Awake, Poets of Los Angeles and elsewhere. She’s the author of four poetry collections; How I Lost My Virginity To Michael Cohen and other heart stab poems, (2014), State of Grace: The Joshua Elegies, (2015), Enter  Here, (2017), and Junkie Wife, (2018). Her photographs are published worldwide. A multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, Alexis is poetry editor of Cultural