April 9-15, 2018: Poetry from Elizabeth Alford and Evan James Sheldon

Elizabeth Alford and Evan James Sheldon

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Elizabeth Alford
ealfordpoet@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Elizabeth Alford (Hayward, CA) usually writes on her laptop, but in its absence will settle for her cell phone. Recent and forthcoming publications appear online at venues such as One Sentence Poems, Contemporary Haibun Online, the other bunny, & the cherita: your storybook journal. Follow her poetry adventures @ http://www.facebook.com/ElizabethAlfordPoetry

The following work is Copyright © 2018, and owned by Elizabeth Alford. and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

A Private Message I Never Sent on OkCupid

~ for GEZ

Tell me the truth. I can take it.
Are you circumcised?

Forgive me. I know that’s
an awfully personal question
from practically a stranger,
especially on a dating site,
and certainly not one
one should ask before meeting.

And I’ll admit, it’s awfully
presumptuous of me to assume
we’re even going to get that far
since we’ve only been messaging
for—like—two days.

But I need to know, now,
whether I’m going to be disappointed—
lying in bed frustrated
even as you thrust furiously above me
with all the desperation I’ve come to expect
from a man who hasn’t had a woman
in a long time.

There I go,
being presumptuous again.
My apologies.
I haven’t gotten laid myself lately
and I’m nearing thirty, so
my sex drive
is driving me
crazy.

Sometimes I just want to screw a bedpost,
just say fuck it and screw a bedpost,
feel it long and hard and thick
deep inside me—but
other times I think that
for some people, filling one hole
is just a substitute
for filling the other hole
we all carry
deep in our hearts.

I’d rather make love to a mountain,
a really big mountain
somewhere in the Alps or the Rockies or
maybe somewhere not quite so cold since
lately, I feel more like a volcano—
hormones bubbling, boiling,
pressure building up below the surface
(building      building      building)

until I      explode

at or on anyone
in the near vicinity. Not
getting laid makes me irritable,
and getting laid… well,
we all know sex is messy,
messy business.

So this is important: are you circumcised?

I won’t tell you my preference.
Don’t want to spoil the mystery, right?

Hope to hear from you soon.

 

 

 


Evan James Sheldon
evanjamessheldon@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Evan James Sheldon lives with his family in Denver, Colorado. His work has appeared in Spelk, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Dually Noted.

The following work is Copyright © 2018, and owned by Evan James Sheldon and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

Tiny Sorcerers

Our cat killed a bird
and buried it in our
sandbox. We dug
out the still-warm corpse,
placed it on a make-shift
altar: a plastic kitchen oven. You
were scared and didn’t like
its still form.

We grew up in church.
We knew resurrection
was real. I had you
bring your puerile make-up.
Blushes in red, purple eye-shadow
all mixed together
like a sunrise.

We stirred potions
and applied salves.
We chanted and danced.
We were four and six, still
secure in our belief
that death could be
undone.

You live far away
now. Busy with life
and duty. Grown-up,
too world-weary
to believe
that children in sandbox
can raise the dead.

When I tell
the story now,
I leave out the end.
No one else saw the bird
shake off the dust from its eyes
and fly away,
disappearing into clouds and sunrays.
Ascending.