Gnashing Teeth Publishing

| words that get in your teeth

For America by Amy Lee

Oh, for what is a true patriot anyway?

Ye who is too hateful to concede defeat,

too thuggish to deserve democracy

too blind to the sufferings

too busy gerrymandering

too supreme for the truth

Oh, for what are words anyway?

The muted don’t need words. Words are weapons for liars.

Oh, for what is this country anyway?

This is the house that racists built,

this is the land where rioters rage,

this is the home where civility is burnt

this is the joke where liars rule,

this is where they swim to your shores

then nailed with Judas’ kiss

Bio: Amy Lee is a lawyer and emerging writer based in Seattle. She is finally writing as she feels she has been quiet for too long. 

Her work was published in HR.Com, Thrive Global, The F-Word, Cicerone, FemAsia, Brave and Reckless, Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen, Rigorous, Journal of the Asia-Pacific World, Feminine Collective and Womankind, Flash in a Flash, Sweet and Sour Zine, Quail Bell Magazine and the upcoming RELEASE ME, the Spirits of Greenwood Speak anthology and The Stripes Magazine

 

She holds BA/LLB from the University of Queensland and LLM from the University of Melbourne 

She volunteers as a mentor in the JD program at the University of Melbourne.  

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

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