Free Verse | Better Than Starbucks Poetry Magazine September 2019

Free Verse with Vera Ignatowitsch

Mourning

Yet deep within this dire stirring,

I still curl near you, on a

worn velvet couch, pull

piles of pillows below our feet

next to my limp beige bra,

your torn suede slippers, the floor

littered

pink vials, violet pills, pots of vomit,

pools of vaseline

in lids.

I rub jelly into bed sores

cover you, tuck our soft afghan,

stripes of apricot and tomato,

under your skin, sweep

sweats of silver hair

from your forehead

and fall asleep, a dog

by your feet until

morning.

Stacey Z Lawrence teaches Poetry and Creative Writing in Maplewood, NJ. Her work can be seen in Chaleur, Dream Noir, Vita Brevis, and others. She was short-listed for the Fish Poetry Prize 2019.

Trans-Formation

After kindergarten you gave up wearing girly things

played with Star Wars figures, action heroes and Legos

with a lightsaber dangling from your belt.

You were thought of as a tomboy

often regarded as a boy in restaurants

and kicked out of the girls’ restroom at school several times.

You wore skater shoes and Tony Hawk clothes in middle school.

Your hoodie covered your face when you received “Best in Shop”

and I was embarrassed by your style.

Then in high school when you got soccer MVP and had a girlfriend,

I just thought you were gay —

but in college when you bought men’s shoes and went to a barber

it hadn’t quite hit me that you were becoming your true self;

I didn’t realize how badly you’d wanted to be a boy for so long.

Now at 21 you have a new name and use the men’s room

you give yourself the shots and wait for top surgery

you seem so happy, and I admire your classy style.

I rejoice seeing your maleness and applaud your bravery

the deepest You is fully emerging

Welcome to the world my son!

Kalila Volkov is the author of Hiking Trail, Treasure Land, and Fishing for Equilibrium: The Power of a Diary. She delights in choral singing and cooking up poems.

My Blizzard Man is Gone

no longer will he come—

snow covered hat, boots he forgot to wear

leaving his feet chilled in sneakers

and knee-high snow

there will no longer be that persistent

banging at my door

cursing to let him in before he freezes

nor will he slip into floppy slippers

or sit upon the couch in black hoodie

wrapped like a mummy in a furry afghan

. . . still not warm enough

no longer will my arms stretch around

his big belly, my legs rest across his lap

as he snores through the movie, wakes

and asks what he’s missed

no longer will his fingers

‘tickle the ivories’

or his raspy voice sing out

in jazzy down ‘n’ dirty blues

no longer will he complain the food

is too cold, the coffee not strong enough

everything needs more spice

my blizzard man is gone

eighty-four was all the breath he had

I will sit at the window, watch snow

mounting on the lawn and where

his old grey Toyota once sat . . . a driveway

covered in drifts

Gloria g. Murray has been published in literary journals including The Paterson Review, Poet Lore, CQ Quarterly, The Bridge, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Limestone Circle, The Long Island Quarterly, Lynx Eye, Xandau, and others.