One night she steals / an onion from one / of the nuns tells me it’s / the sweetest thing she ever / tasted.
By Tommy Picofeasting on boys ideas / and language and chips / of technology. Sometimes / real food.
By Tommy Picoif you journey home by nightlight consider / how much the beak’s wielded innocence can rend and tear
By Rich IvesWho deserves yr story? / Not all stories. Not my story / my lol truth not life of live-/ lihood or food.
By Tommy PicoWhat might Job have thought of the many doctors who, / when commanded by Franco’s men, took hundreds / of newborn babies from their mothers as they trembled
By Joanne Diaz(meanwhile) (my idol suggested we go someplace) / (so I cd show him my stretch-marks) (what did u call them) (the lion's miss-timed / leap
By Montana RayThe umbilical cord becomes a tender red S hanging out of the belly, / an incompleted television cable curling from your eaves.
By Megan Savagethe last flower i saw in south suicide / queens was on a little girl’s tee, a trio / of violets banged up with giddiness—
By Amber AtiyaWe are under an upturned boat a keel of stars / just us and the other leaf eaters
By Allan Peterson© 2014 Blunderbuss Magazine. All rights reserved.