Gnashing Teeth Publishing

| words that get in your teeth

fire season three – Victoria Ruiz

fire season three

what a man makes of his mother 
clutching the dog in a misty doorway morning, porch light on

his father already gone to work

the bus stop chatter of pink umbrellas and a kid with a stick
multi-verses keeping beat on an everyday city block
my world is here

and then it’s not

it drives away in a gently used subaru
while we go on pretending these last supper 
good-byes are about the food

gone the boxed lunch days
no note to leave
so i bury a slate of tourmaline 
for protection 

i remember everything

milk braids in the fold of his neck nursing
every little stitch of cross-hatched skin
on awkward knees and band-aids

the aisle of axe spray when he and his twin were twelve
warm cookies pulled from the oven burning fallen off morsels 
of pizza cheese

if memory had a scent, it would be the rush
of yesterdays as his
tires pull away

Bio – Victoria Ruiz {she/her} is a Minneapolis based writer whose work has appeared in What Rough Beast/Indolent Books, NYWC online journal, Gnashing Teeth, Olney Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic and forthcoming Camperdown NYC collective book of poetry. She is a lover of all things music and enjoys dancing in the kitchen with speakers on full-tilt while her dog, Mojo, watches in disdain.

young woman with red hair smiling at the camera with a white paper umbrella behind her

like pretty tulips by linda m. crate

everything has been hard and heavy, as of late; in my world and the world at large— so yesterday i was drinking in small wonders like pretty tulips dancing out

What I Can Offer You by Rich Orloff

I cannot fix your pain I cannot solve your problem I can’t prevent the sorrow you’re feeling Or even guarantee I’ll make you smile However, because I’ve known Joy embracing

by Natalye Childress

*this poem is in .jpg to preserve formatting *this is the unformatted text of the poem after rainer maria rilke you, the poet, have become world weary, word-wrought. and god

guy with a dark beard and moustache wearing a black graphic tee

Orchards of Udders by Jon Wesick

dripped on the blanket while air rustled tamarind trees. Chekhov drank a Thai iced tea and plummeted out of this poem. A flock of circles twittered in the hacksaw bushes


we love hearing from you. tell us everything

Skip to content