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Ashley Green: "Youth"

8/28/2020

Youth

I.
We’d pass secrets to one another.

Hide them behind crooked teeth,
chew on them for hours until our jaws hung slack,
or swallow them whole and cradle the ache
in the pit of our stomachs,
but never once did we let them fall from our mouths.

Our smiles made up of rotten truths,
our insides coated with horror,
our blood thick with each other.

II.
I dipped my legs in tar.

Left skin and bone behind,
waded through thick waters,
until I was waist high in Death.

She watched from the shore,
knees bare and pink
beneath the hem of a mourning dress,
and claimed she could not swim.

III.
Her voice compressed.

A new tone, tangy and untrue,
rolled off her tongue and hung heavy
between us.

I sifted through the sound,
searched for a familiar note,
but all I gathered was goodbye
in splintered octaves.

IV.
Our scars no longer matched.

The ways in which I was torn and sewn
appeared slipshod compared to her
silver threads of tidy burden,
and so we both made the mistake
of thinking the other too weak –

she with her secrets hidden
and mine so brazenly shown.

Ashley is Southern California based writer, poet, and general weirdo with pieces in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Rabid Oak, and Sunday Mornings at the River, among others. Find her on Instagram @amoderncrone.

Anna Nissley: "Ambivalent"

8/21/2020

Ambivalent

I’m learning how to live both ways.
That is, with intense doubt and
Uncontainable joy—
The kind that comes out in bursts of laughter
That can’t be explained
As anything I’ve asked for or earned.
I haven’t asked for it,
Or anything for that matter
But here are blurred skies,
Pop songs, an unprecedented love of succulents,
So many kinds of plastic,
Backpacking for fun,
And the sun (what is the sun?)—
One day, I was hiking with my sister and a friend
We stuffed our mouths with blueberries
And I almost spewed them onto the forest floor
From laughter.
There’s a picture of it: sunburned face, cheeks dimpled and bulging with berries
And the blur of my hand ready to catch them
In case they flew out.

Anna Nissley is a recent graduate of Kutztown University who majored in Secondary English Education and Spanish with a minor in Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. Anna works as an 8th grade English teacher and spends her spare time writing, reading, cooking, and gardening. She is slated to begin a thru-hike on the Appalachian Trail in the spring of 2021.

Sophie Laing: "Measuring"

8/12/2020

Measuring

A hop, skip, and a jump
across mason jars that connect us
in the kitchen, your aprons have never
matched mine. I always see if we can throw
spoonfuls of sauces across the island
to each other. I think we should constantly
be testing the laws of attraction
and of fate. When we sleep sometimes
I pretend you’re someone else
so when we wake up I can’t lie
to myself before I look at you,
so I can’t prepare what I feel.
I need that one renewed, fresh second
of feeling, seedling of truth before
we start to scatter spices on counter tops
throughout the day
and finish each other’s recipes.

Sophie is from sort-of-upstate New York. Her poems have also appeared in Lucky Jefferson, Kissing Dynamite, Déraciné Magazine, and elsewhere. Sophie can be found on Twitter @sophalinalaing.

DF Paul: "Offer Kindness"

7/6/2020

Offer Kindness

When you tell someone
to go fuck themselves
you should be willing
to be more constructive.
Offer diagrams.
Suggest state-of-the-art
stretching regimes.
Share your favorite
genital enhancements.
Go the extra mile
to support their success.

DF Paul lives in the Midwestern United States. He has never been a good salesman. His work has appeared in such journals as Open Minds Quarterly and The Perch, published by Yale University. More of his published work can be seen at dfpaul.wordpress.com.

Lilia Dobos: "Pollination"

5/21/2020

Pollination

Among the summer green
we walk with adolescent
palms picking honeysuckle and sharing
our sweet. He picks the good

ones for me and tells me to lick
the nectar. We race
to the house and back, catching

our breaths, faces
blushed, and golden
heat.
I remember

the backyard trail and its dust:
the dirty taste

in my mouth. I wonder what we
said on those walks, our prepubescent
legs carrying sweat and grime. I give him
a bracelet that says sexy and run

away, far too young to commit
to such a statement, far
too shy to admit
I want to.

Lilia is a current graduate student studying English at Salisbury University, where she also teaches Research and Composition. Her poems have been published in Barely South Review, New Mexico Review, The Shore, and elsewhere.

Matthew Jones: "On Laughing Woman with Ice Cream Cone"

4/16/2020

On Laughing Woman with Ice Cream Cone

He was this little guy
with a camera
Reflection faint
in the window
Claimed he only photographed
Beautiful Women
a cement mixer
churning
promise of fame
invitation for drinks
and that’s when I laughed

Matthew Jones lives and works in Massachusetts. His writing appears in The Worcester Review, Sheila-Na-Gig Online, and Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine. He graduated from Tufts University and Northeastern University School of Law. When not working, writing or spending time with family, he fronts the band, Col. Pike & The Expedition.
http://www.col-pike.com

Kristina Heflin: "Unbecoming"

4/3/2020

Unbecoming

Like the Tortoise and the Hedgehog,
Best Beloved,
I became something I was not
to protect myself.
A strange, exotic creature
all sliding scales and sly, slanted snout
suspicious of the world I lived in –
but that was not me.
So I began to shed my armour
bit by bit, plate by plate
until I was left so very raw and unprotected.
Ah, but finally! –
the glow of the sun on my back
the tickle of the breeze on my cheek
the kiss of grass on my feet –
finally I was free.

Kristina Heflin is the author of the chapbook, iridescent rubble, now available on Amazon. She has served on the editorial board of the literary journal Flumes and been published in journals such as Canyon Voices, Fearsome Critters, Shelia-Na-Gig, Coffin Bell, and Broad River Review among many others. When she’s not writing, she enjoys riding her horse, Lucero, and hiking with her Carolina Dog, Jessie. Visit her at www.sagasandmythos.com, on Facebook @klheflin, and Twitter @KristinaHeflin

Cassandra Baumgardner: "Why I Play Horror Games With the Contrast Turned Up

3/5/2020

Why I Play Horror Games With the Contrast Turned Up

And I have a lot to say.
Too much.
More than
any
one person
should.
It's as if I'm running out of time,
downing streams of thoughts faster than a glass of bourbon.

Cassandra Baumgardner is stuck in a constant state of wonder in the deep woods of central Pennsylvania. She's rarely seen without a book or cup of tea, and often daydreams of far away lands. With the exception of a few local poetry competitions, she's never had her work published. She's a spirited cybersecurity and risk analyst whose other biggest hobbies include cosplaying, urban exploration, and staring at the stars.

Sophia Foss: "The First Language"

1/28/2020

The First Language
Your questioning comes from a different plane,
between chicken noodle soup and the color peach.

I debate a cover-up before reason reminds me you’d compare the marks to space’s sky.

Silence teaches us its language,
far more archaic than Hebrew or Hieroglyphics-
we learn it fast.

I can go back a century in my room and meet you
to hear monologues in a breath;
making promises in the lines of the upturned corners of our lips.

Sophia Foss is a junior Professional Writing major at Western Connecticut State University in Danbury. Currently unpublished, she aspires to release a book of selected poems inspired by raising awareness to mental health issues. She is thrilled to share her work with Red Flag Poetry and its community of readers and writers.

Morgan Plessner: "Paella"

12/26/2019

Paella

I have family recipes for paella
and early death.

Shoot the rabbit, I’m told.
There is saffron rice boiling over on the stovetop
and where is the female hare,
ripe, ready, aching for me to shoot?
It’s easy. After, pick the snails from the tomato vine.

Eat up road, they tell me.
Everything’s rained out, I have glasses for night
driving and every time I hug a curve, little tabs
of Dramamine roll in my cupholder
as if to say: don’t.

But I still drive at night, still listen
for the early morning call to come home
amid the great racket of waking up.
I strain, listening, for breath leased from the dead,
waiting for something to whisper back.

Morgan Plessner is a poet with her MFA from the University of New Hampshire. She has been published in Ink & Voices, Foliate Oak, and Underwood Press's Black Works, with publications forthcoming in Allegory Ridge and Reality Break Press.