March 20-26, 2017: Poetry from Vicki Iorio and Patrick Theron Erickson

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​Vicki Iorio and Patrick Theron Erickson

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​Vicki Iorio
vickiiorio@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Vicki Iorio of Massapequa, New York is the author of the poetry collection, Poems from the Dirty Couch, Local Gems Press, 2013, and the chapbook, Send me a Letter, dancinggirlpress. You can read Iorio’s work in Hell strung and Crooked, I Let Go of the Stars, (Great Weather for Media), The Brownstone Poets Anthology, The San Pedro Review, The Mom Egg, Crack the Spine, The Painted Bride Quarterly, The Fem Lit Magazine, Redheaded Stepchild Magazine, Concise, Cactus Heart and Rattle on line.

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by ​LB Sedlacek and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Raw

I have never eaten a starfruit.
I am determined to eat all the strange fruits in my market.
My sister stopped eating years ago, pared down
bones, did squats minutes after giving birth,
remade her body without a knife.
Babies leave chimera cells in their mothers.
Scientists debate whether these hangers- on
cause chaos or are just shadowy reminders of division.
My belly was a pointy blood orange that morphed
into a watermelon. My daughter came out a raging
purple eggplant with a rounded spine.
Eating raw honey while pregnant may be dangerous to chimeras.
I was no match to the craving.

 

 



Patrick Theron Erickson
patricktheron4@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Patrick Theron Erickson, a resident of Garland, Texas, a Tree City, just south of Duck Creek, is a retired parish pastor put out to pasture himself. His work has appeared in Poetry Super Highway, Grey Sparrow Journal, Cobalt Review, and Burningword Literary Journal, among other publications, and more recently in Right Hand Pointing, Tipton Poetry Journal, Wilderness House Literary Review and Danse Macabre.

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by Patrick Theron Erickson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

It’s No Longer Morning

The smell of
fried eggs and bacon
no longer clings
to your housecoat
 
your hair
your skin
 
Your buttermilk biscuits
soak up the bacon grease
 
and the chalky buttermilk residue
still clings to your upper lip
 
But the cat
doesn’t seem to mind
 
minding his business
licking up the leftovers
 
before eviscerating
a field mouse
on the front porch
 
It’s no longer morning
 
But it may as well be
for all the day holds in store.