Heads Bowed

Wandering

Along empty streets

Pondering

With furrowed brow

Grieving

For the life we’re leaving

Behind

For now

Nesting

Investing

In our souls

And each other

Somehow

Listening

Eyes glistening

To melodies

And heartbeats

Heads bowed

---

"Heads Bowed" by S. Hawn.

At the Mercy of Men

The dance we do is like cuts across my thighs and cuts across my breasts

Each breath is poison and each night is full of great unrest

My mind is not my own and my tears smell of gin

I mourn the moment I gave in to the sin

Your words are distant and convenient

When another woman has your interest

They all get tired of the arrogant rants

You are heartbroken and then your words are cunning, and seductive

Then you look at me like a rose in bloom, a rose fit for the plucking

Fuck this, I think, but then comes the caress and the pressing intimacy

Then the world stops, Then the raw ache dominants the room

I, breathless, give myself over to the moment of want, the moment of acceptance and the moment of sin

I am never to be the summoner, or the sorcerer in any situation

I am just to be the weak player in a game that you rewrite every time we play

Age is a number that defines a woman’s happiness

If you are captured by a loving capturer early than the world will provide

If you wait and wonder, you fall victim to the 2am phone call, the lust but not the love

You live in the shadows not to be shown off or known

You exist alone with memories of a life unlived

The mercy of men gives little back but takes everything

The mercy of men ages you until you look ancient at 32

Your outward appearance looks alive but inside the devil has come

Your blood runs cold and your soul knows nothing anymore

You are the walking dead.

---

"At the Mercy of Men" by Kathryn Malone.

Kathryn Malone is a actress and writer from Fredericton, New Brunswick. She has a B.A. in English and a Concentration in Drama from St. Thomas University.

Morning Coffee

I top my espresso

with a shot of frothy oat's milk,

getting the right kind of swirl, which I liken to a summer leaf (although no one but me has seen the resemblance), then contemplate the wind in the naked branches

of the birch tree outside the window, and I have to think of your limbs and my limbs entwined last night into the wee hours of the morning, and I know that spring is right around the corner,

another spring with you, my love,

and I have to smile

to myself, not at the vividness

of my imagination when it comes

to the subtleties of barista art,

but simply because I know you can't stop time and we are, you and me, caught in this lovely maelstrom, together,

sweetly deliciously caught, and this is the real high, the buzz, the utter blessedness that fills me as I close my eyes

and take a sip.

---

"Morning Coffee" by Francis Fernades. Photo Credit: Francis Fernades.

Francis Fernandes grew up in Canada. He studied in Montréal and has a degree in Mathematics. He currently lives in Germany, where he writes and teaches.