August 18-24, 2014: Sarah Lilius and Erik Noonan

Sarah Lilius and Erik Noonan

Send us your poetry for POET OF THE WEEK consideration. Click here for submission guidelines.

Sarah Lilius

Bio (auto)

Sarah Lilius lives in Arlington, VA. She is a stay at home mother and poet. Originally from the Midwest, Sarah graduated from Augustana College in Rock Island, IL. Some of the journals where her work can be found are: BlazeVOX, Bluestem, The Denver Quarterly, and Court Green. Her website is

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Sarah Lilius and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

You Can’t Call The Dead

My father used to fire up the stove with a long match
only to boil water for spaghetti night.
My parents would joke around, throw the long noodles
at the wall to see if they’d stick, like a memory—something
to be eaten, consumed by all of us with no reserve.
Arms on the table, those moments taken for granted.


The yellowish spot under my eye
is a sign of my sickness.
A genetic tamed sun.

When the woman takes my blood,
I am easy, I am happy with her
vampire ease of the needle.

The vial fills with the unknown,
mysterious map of the blood,
a waiting game in plastic.

The doctor delivers the bad news
not in a white coat and not with
a smile but with a resilient reserve.

She prescribes the medicine
my father was on
when a fatal stroke took to his brain.

I sit on the bed thinking of him,
also in his 30s, hearing the bad news.
His heart, still a machine.


Erik Noonan

Bio (auto)

Erik Noonan is the author of Stances (Bird & Beckett, 2012) and Haiku d’Etat (Omerta, 2013). He lives in San Francisco with his family.

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Erik Noonan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Soft Sell

Unbeknownst to him
he got involved
in the ultimate
stakes higher
than ever before
his client was The
Establishment boss
and all
their target
would oversee
an annual budget
of trillions
super committees
underwrote the deal
about it rocked
that is
right up until
he felt
spread across
his nerves
like the scuttle
of many
robo spiders
the bad news
no one had let him in on
not how the item
was him
nor even how
checking him out
fainted from sticker shock
but how he himself
qua commodity
was nothing more
than pure shelf life
a mothball
amid the ivy league
in the party cloak room
no haze
that palmy evening
he powered down early
climbed into
the compound
gazed out its embrasure
watched offshore
accounts accrue interest
as the sun set
on an era of legalized
and over nightcap
he sighed
for bygone days
when you could
break away
on your Gordon Gekko
without any care
why a pissed off
might not go for
being addressed
as if they were
delivering prunes and paté
to the boardroom
he wept
pink ticker tape
he saw red
worms uncoil
under the real
it purpled
his organless body
the deep blue walls
of his skull
turned bottle green