Poetry

By Reese Brown

Upon these broken mountains
we found a love unlike any other.
Your sturdy back,
stubble absent chin,
my drifting thoughts wondering,
“How in the hell do you shave so close, Jack?”

A cigarette tucked between your lips,
I remember plucking it with calloused fingers
and taking a long drag.

No cold Wyoming air can beat
the warm smoke in my lungs
knowing it was an extension of you.
I hear you grumbling beside me:
so stoic, so repressed, hm Ennis?

These nights of ours 
ingrained into my skin like weathered tattoos. 
Like a tree I have my own rings,
wrinkles from the stress of carrying this burden —
carrying the secret of us.
It’s all your own personal brand.
Jack fuckin’ Twist.

Sweat slick,
kiss bitten lips,
flushed cheeks,
soft gasps that flutter against my skin —
You’re beautiful,
We’re beautiful,
and at least we have the mountains.

By Lilyann Bailey

A balloon of fresh juice coated my tongue —
Pop! Followed by a smush that bedewed my thoughts. 
Twiddling three grapes between my fingers, there we won, 
the last parking spot for blocks at the shore. 
 
Green grapes are superior, but you preferred purple. 
A subtle battle of which tasted better to me —
Pop! The darker grapes are usually sweeter. 
The shiny bundles lined a container atop your car. 
 
There we stood, listening to the spastic squawks of seagulls —
Pop! The vines wrapped their twig arms around each bubble.  
The lighter ones are slightly more tart. 
Cars honked, showing recycled sympathy caught along the tide. 
 
Crowds flocked bonded like the bundle in my hands.  
Dewy drops of water kissed the barrier of my teeth —
Pop! Fragile skin teared and the juice-filled veins bled. 
Your smile glared at mine. Purple grapes aren’t so bad.