Gnashing Teeth Publishing

| words that get in your teeth

hot july night by eric short

In your bed, pretending to sleep, secretly
counting fan blades like flower petals, wondering
He loves me, He loves me not, He loves me.
Thank god there are five.

 

And, thankfully
my snoring offers more white noise
than the whirr of the ceiling fan, because

 

laying in my bed, unable to fall asleep
without a ceiling fan of my own,
I forget how many petals your daisy has.
My brain spins faster than the blades when

 

I accidentally turned the fan too high.
He loves me not. He loves me not.
He loves me not!
But, you only notice a fan as strong as

 

the dust amassed its blades,
clinging tightly, suffocating.
No air left to circulate.

 

I noticed the fan in that July heat,
on my knees, seeking God’s direction
as the fireworks exploded on my
oohs and aahs. And now I remember

 

replacing our fan with a window unit.

Eric Short teaches public speaking to college students and is just beginning his voyage into the world of poetry. He lives with his husband and two cats in the Twin Cities where he enjoys cooking, gardening and overthinking.

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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