March 28-April 3, 2011: Eamonn Lorigan and Valentina Cano

Eamonn Lorigan

eamonnlorigan@gmail.com

 

Bio (auto)

Eamonn Lorigan is an annuated Irishman with a spotty publication history trying to write one decent poem every couple of days for the rest of his miserable God-bedeviled life in the obviously contradictory hope that he will thereby find salvation He has published stories and poems in Muse Apprentice Guild, Literary Potpourri, Slow Train, and Carve Magazine Eamonn lives in Manchester, NH with his wife and two teenage sons. 

Visit Eamonn on the web here: http://www.eamonnlorigan.blogspot.com/

The following work is Copyright © 2011, and owned by Eamonn Lorigan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


 

Dinner Is For The Living

The facts of her impending death:

cookware grown old
plates chipped & spidered
glaze cracked
blue-veined porcelain.

This will never happen
to me he thought
eating
off a spidered plate

scrambled eggs
she made him
for dinner All she
could make him.

 

 

 

_______________________________

Valentina Cano
valca85@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time she has either reading or writing Her work has appeared in Exercise Bowler, and will appear in the winter editions of Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Magnolia’s Press, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, and Perhaps I’m Wrong About the World She lives in Miami You can find her here: http://coldbloodedlives.blogspot.com

The following work is Copyright © 2011, and owned by Valentina Cano and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

 

Family Curse

The glass is stained with lipstick Yours or mine depends on the shade,
your peach fuzzy lips smudged sideways
or my apple-peel red ones sliced on the rim
I smell it,
that whiff of salty perfume
staining a scarf you wore
or that necklace that screams for sunlight
in my bedroom closet
I peer at photographs
stained in coffee-sepia
looking for the curve of a jaw like a bird’s wing,
the hint of hunger around the eyes,
the lack of an essence like a vitamin A need for swallowing,
for gobbling,
a panic held in unsteady check The need to lick cutlery,
our fingers grasping tongue-stained plates.

A Woman

She arrives on a siren Wings of sound and flashing lights
striking through the air around her Her face is a wall of stones
cracked and glowering Her eyes, used matches She glides to the sounds of alarms
in a waltz drenched in fear and neglect
like a dirty kitchen I smile as she throws herself my way She looks at me like a cockroach looks
at a light switch I flinch and she dances off,
an aged lemon rolling of a counter.