(not quite) a literary journal


3 Poems, by Micaela Lacy

Spaghetti on Valentines Day

by Micaela Lacy

by Micaela Lacy

Blondes boiling alive,
Rigid with principles, morals and values,
Fortified whole-wheat,
Then, suddenly weak.

All it took was a little hot water,
Some heat to loosen you up.
Whirling and twirling against the bubbles
Drowning in confusion.

Normally, I'd strain the water
Save you from your bubbling doom,
Leave you alone to stew,
Dry out a bit,
Let the sopping wet mess disappear.

Put you back into the pan,
Safe and dry,
Lather on tomato-colored love,
And take you in, just the same.

But today I pour you down the drain,
Flip the switch,
Listen for the disposal's gargle,
Without looking back.

Taking Out the Coffeehouse Trash

by Micaela Lacy

by Micaela Lacy

I hunch over smelly plastic bins at the coffeehouse, 
staring at disregarded pieces of other people’s lives.

This is my job.

I gather paper cups with remnants of caffeinated cravings
and dark brown bottles, coated in sticky reassurance.

Each one holds the best kind of love story.

Tales of passion, happiness, contentment, and dangerous thrills.
Hearts thump, nerves twitch, we’re suddenly alert, aroused, and alive.

But only for a few moments -- 
a few hours -- if we drink slow.

We suck down our love stories until they’re bone dry,
or toss them out when they’ve been sitting for too long and have grown cold.
And some of us only try a tiny taste before we decide we don’t like them anymore.

I tie up the trash bags,
feel them sag in my hands from great weight,
and watch him pass by.

Our eyes meet, and I smile
before flinging the coffeehouse trash into the dumpster.

New Girl Entering A Room

by Shannon Soule

by Shannon Soule

As the new girl in the room
I crave eye contact. 
It’s a biological pull.

All the antenna stand up
as I round the corner of the bar.
I don’t even need these short shorts

as my female pheromones fill the air.
But the pair of eyes I’d like to catch the most
never seem to land.

I’m not the new girl to you.
So I just stare at your beautiful face --
uninterested in my own.

I tell my bunsenburner joke.
The new girl hypnosis takes effect
and they all laugh.

Except you.
Unreachable from your punk prince position.
Or did you just smile?

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poetry, micaela lacySybil Journal