When the Power is Out
“Don’t flush the toilet when you leave”
The bright green secret in my pocket is a
Sacred life all unfolded in white
You do not know that I am
You do not know that I like violets –
Like them as much as the figs
In your front yard
Bitten with morning dew.
You do not know that my song has been
Cracked by the breaking of lips,
Crumbled by the outpouring of blood
Into the toilet.
I flush though you remind me
Once again – stiff and feminine
Against your fear.
Who is Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Who is afraid of Virginia Woolf?
I’m afraid of Virginia Woolf.
The lighthouse looms cold –
Watching the shores below
As my heart beats upon the rocks.
I see her in the mirror glass of my eyes –
Dim though strong enough to shine with
Confusion and the hate of
My tender self.
I fear her wandering waves tugging upon
The wires of my heart –
The rising of soft lipped flowers and
I fear the pooling of our mutual blood
Caught on jagged bricks of preserving
Words To Make Medication Of
This July weeps
Like a November
Fond of naught but
A shimmering tear
Caressed by the lost home
Of an eye
And the ache trapped in the
Lingering fumes of the evenings
At coffee shops.
Laundry sweetens but never cleans –
The blood left behind from you and me.
The robins long and forget their cry-
The flowers purpling under
The resolve of their
Tarries like November –
Pressing its lips
To the earth
With a brittle brown
And the despairing crunch
Of grass gone dry.
This July stings like a November –
Blue shells cracking to
Revel the warm life
This July shakes the windows –
Like tornadoes that the
Dead can’t escape –
The angry cry of
A toppled tombstone
And gathers on the
Victoria Richard is currently studying English and Creative Writing at Millsaps College in Jackson, Mississippi. She also works as an intern at the Eudora Welty House and Garden and has recently received a fellowship to conduct a study on the correlation between the work of Welty and Elizabeth Bowen. She has previously appeared in Twisted Vine, South 85 Journal, The Rush, Barely South Review, as well as three poetry anthologies by The Wingless Dreamer.