Tag Archives: Dramatic poetry

The Assault

By Anthony Aguero 

He lunged towards my body:  

Erect knob cutting towards the East. 

He wanted me dead or unknowing & 

He wanted me dead while shirtless &  

Glistening: beautiful stone skipping 

Across quiet water distracting the eye 

From seeing the boy at the bottom of 

The lake. Drowning & already dead, or 

Assumed deceased, & blue at the lips, 

He is advancing towards my body: 

Rustling Oleander trying to slip into 

My mouth. I release my tongue, but 

Not for pleasure — for escape & He 

Only sees a boy with snapped arms 

& thinks This! is mine — this & so 

He moves closer; stones in his eyes, 

& his cock is billowing wisps of smoke 

— the machination of his body 

Is about to prepare for his sweet-kill. 

But I know of his next move & I open 

My mouth in defense of this: my body.

Anthony Aguero is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA.His work has appeared, or will appear, in the Bangalore Review, 2RiverView, The Acentos Review, The Temz Review, Rhino Poetry, CathexisNorthwest Press, 14 Poems, and others.


By A.E. Vogt

What you seek is buried somewhere
between your chest and your cheek.
Dig with honest hands.
Learn your root, your thistle and your tender.
Hear the hum, the choir of creeksong and mooncry.
Curate the blooms, the fruit, the beauty.

The open arms you ache for have been
within you since your Genesis.

Your heart hides an Eden.
You are all you will ever need.
Everything else is just petals on your crown.

A.E. Vogt began writing poetry three years ago. She often draws inspiration from her childhood, growing up on the Canadian prairie. She is passionate about writing pieces inspired by elements of nature, folklore, religion, and her experiences of womanhood. When she is not writing, she is busy being a freelance photographer, painting with watercolors or getting lost in the forests near her home in Germany. To read more of her work, checkout her website.

The Large, Dark Centers of His Eyes

By Bobbi Sinha-Morey

He sits in his patio again

eyeing us as if we lived

in a dollhouse, probing

everything we do inside

our mobile home watching

every movement as if he

were a higher being who

could possibly tease open

our door with his thumb and

interpret our lives, a knowledge

blooming slowly in my mind

like a flower that he’d love to

live comfortably like us for

the rest of his life, and I know

he doesn’t like us – a two-sided

jerk, and one day I peered back

at him before it was daylight.

That’s when I saw the large,

dark centers of his eyes like

new pupils fitted inside by an

unseen hand. I imagined him

an oculist examining me and

my husband behind the glass.

In my dreams wrinkles on his

face looked like cobwebs and

each time I saw him outside

my world begun to tremble.

I could see inside whenever

he pleased because there were

no blinds on our windows.

He could see my husband

napping, me in my pajamas.

One day just before dusk I saw

mosquitos in the air spinning

around his head.

Bobbi Sinha-Morey’s poetry has appeared in a wide variety of places such as Plainsongs, Pirene’s Fountain, The Wayfarer, Helix Magazine, Miller’s Pond, The Tau, Vita Brevis, Cascadia Rising Review, Old Red Kimono, and Woods Reader. Her books of poetry are available at Amazon.com and her work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology in 2015, 2018, and 2020 as well as having been nominated for The Pushcart Prize in 2020. Find her online here.