Gnashing Teeth Publishing

| words that get in your teeth

In the Garden by Robbi Nester

In the Garden

to Richard
After “To Dorothy,” by Marvin Bell

You’re my practical potato. sprawling out
over the rocky earth. I might have sought
a bird of paradise, lofty head standing
high above the crowd. But you
will nourish me long after their stalks
have fallen, when the bright rose,
in his pomp, has lost his petals.
You have all the eyes I need,
enough to sprout a garden, under
the ground, in secret, where nobody
but me will know. I go out there
with my spade and hack away
the roots, leaving a portion of
the tuber. I couldn’t grow a weed,
except by accident. Without you,
I would starve.

~

Robbi Nester is the author of 4 books of poems, a chapbook, Balance (White Violet, 2012) and three collections–A Likely Story (Moon Tide, 2014), Other-Wise (Kelsay, 2017), and Narrow Bridge (Main Street Rag, 2019). They have also edited two anthologies, and am currently beginning another, The Plague Papers. To take part in it, visit a virtual museum of any kind online, choose an object, specimen, or work of art, and write a poem or short piece of prose. Send it to rknester@gmail.com by May 30th with a link to the object online.

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

connect

we love hearing from you. tell us everything

Skip to content