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Poetry 103

Cynthia Marie Hoffman: Living

October 2, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

The dead come to our dreams to comfort us. Your husband once stood at the edge of the hallway to confess his grief, his long body braced against the wall as if one more step into the living room would dispatch him spinning into the hollow. You took him into your arms. You and your […]

Filed Under: Issue 103, Poetry, Poetry 103 Tagged With: Cynthia Marie Hoffman

Pat Hull: My body, the master 

September 27, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

I can tell by the flow of my piss  How high I am  Blood sugar wise  A slight push with a weak arch  160-200 mg/dL range  A slow start with excessive end drips  200-275 mg/dL range  I’ve learned to love my body  An unconventional friendship  Two prisoners of war from different countries Adapting together daily […]

Filed Under: Issue 103, Poetry, Poetry 103 Tagged With: Pat Hull

Shane Chergosky: Headwind

September 16, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

? When I think about the story she told me about that I don’t even wanna hurt the guy. I don’t know if I could meet that person and act normal. I remember I did that when I was about 20,21. I didn’t go into CVS with Xunaxi to What a bastard I was . […]

Filed Under: Issue 103, Poetry, Poetry 103 Tagged With: Shane Chergosky

Alex Watson: Self portrait as an A train car

September 16, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

Filed Under: Issue 103, Poetry, Poetry 103 Tagged With: Alex Watson

Ellen Rogers: Celery (33 Weeks)

September 16, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

The middle school rumor was you burn more calories than you gain when you eat celery. So much attention to what was inside a lunch box then, when I longed to become buxom and nothing at once, thin as smoke from a fire right before the night wins— flickering rib-hollows, shadowed cheeks. It took me […]

Filed Under: Issue 103, Poetry, Poetry 103 Tagged With: Ellen Rogers

Rachael Philipps: After you left us

September 16, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

After you left us, I got the call Her cremains are ready, she said. The what? I said The cremains…cremated remains. She explained, testily. Like… duh. Oh, I say Her ashes. What I wanted to say – She, should never be called cremains. Of course I angry-Googled it – industry term, euphemism, first found in […]

Filed Under: Issue 103, Poetry, Poetry 103 Tagged With: Rachael Philipps

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