issue 43: conception

First Light

- mia morgalla (bio)

The waterlilies sit, drifting

inch by inch, petals straining


for the apricot sun,

their meditative urge


only finding my love.

You rest by the lake’s edge,


reflection swallowed by the deep,  

unyielding ink.


It’s hard to write

about what doesn’t hurt,


about that unspecific glow

of Eos eating away at the night.


- mia morgalla (bio)

As autumn closes in, I find warmth curled 
into the sun-soaked skin of your neck, 
blindfolded from a bitter blue morning 
we’re the memory of humble corner churches,
opulent intimacy— hindering the day 
with an orthodox hunger.
A love that won’t leave us bruised and
I’m full of wonder at how when we taste one
another there’s no decay pushing through;
only the embers of affection burning
in the room, fragrant and full—
two bloodstreams rushing and humming
with an innocence
as if we never plucked the fruit.

The Arrogant Writer

- anon

For the sixth time this month, 
The hopeless romantic opened a pearly white letter,

Hoping for something 
That was nothing short of a miracle.


The instance rolled over, storm-like, 
and he was standing at the bow, 
Seeing for the umpteenth time a mirage, 
Of an glassy welcome, a returned wave.


Something gestured back at him, 
And the mist broke quickly, 
For it was something, and then nothing. 
Only platitudes, 
Encased in flat, lifeless water.


He would put down his pen 
That he used to steer the sails 
Of a ship he knew was great. 
Not because it was something, 
But because it was not nothing.


The hopeless romantic still sits alone. 
His pen remains unopened, 
The direction of his sails hasn’t wavered, 
Because he feels not the need to check their design.


I wonder if he thinks the blood on Achilles’ heel tastes sweet.

Man of the Year

-  anon

Does it hurt much to know that you have invoked a pain

Deeper than the abyss that lays between

Your hand and mine

Beneath a moonlight that is now


Moving On

- anon

to wake up without the sharp intake

of our memories

is a generous gift from the world.

but i no longer sink back into the duvet

wondering when i would stop being winded

i simply rise

and thank the world for its generosity.

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- anon

end of issue 43. go back to issues page.

the poetry juicebox
an international poetry & art publication
the poetry juicebox