MY SITE
LEO Literary Journal Issue One February 2023
The Body Of The Lamb
by Elizabeth Gade
They take away our names and we answer to whatever they call us. I know the color of her hair and the size of skirt she wore but I don’t know if she made it out alive. If she ever made it home. Do any of us make it home? Do you remember? These are the things I wish I could remember. The last time someone spoke the name my mother gave me. The last time someone I loved touched my body gently. The last holiday I celebrated. The last hug I received. Do you remember? In the beginning I let myself remember, but eventually life before fades. The years swallow me whole. There is no before. There is only today, right now, this moment. This pain. This desperation, the animal sickness in the belly. The silent mouth that opens to man, to body, the last communion, the slick steel, the chaliced revolver. You try not to look in the mirror because she is no longer here. You sent her away, but she never made it home. There was no place to go. You are her. The body. The name. I am you. The head that bows. I am here. The pale flanked lamb, broken and begging.
Elizabeth Gade is a bisexual writer and creator of LEO Literary Journal based in the USA. As a human trafficking survivor, her lived experience of abuse and incarceration is what drives her to write and serve her community. She has competed in slam poetry on a local level; she views writing as radical way to show up in the world while connecting to fellow survivors. Poetry has been an important tool in her own journey to heal trauma. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in literary journals & anthologies such as The View Magazine, The Elevation Review, 300 Days Of Sun, Other Worldly Women Press, The GroundUp, The Lindenwood Review, Nine Cloud Journal, The Sober Girls Yoga Magazine and Synkroniciti. She is also working on a full-length poetry memoir manuscript and a free workshop poetry series for women affected by incarceration.
Home | Elizabeth Gade The P (elizabethgadethepo.wixsite.com)
Elizabeth Gade The Poet (@elizabethgadethepoet) • Instagram photos and videos
Because of You
by Beth Kanell
Because you haven’t answered my request, I’m stewing
in suspense. Wondering whether you will allow the
interview. Whether your parole officer (whoever she is)
has said “it’s optional, you don’t have to.” Whether that means
this feels like the only “optional” in what she’s given you,
what you must face each day, raw from change, awkward,
feeling “felon” on your forehead. Whether your new tattoo
(leaves in gray and green) is fresh like a breeze, the same
breeze that I’m breathing, just a couple miles from where you
nestle, flannel sheets starting to feel familiar, so unlike
last year’s coarse cotton in the sour cell. Because I’m waiting
for you to call me back. To break my heart.
Beth Kanell lives in northeastern Vermont. She documents (with care) the lives of Vermonters in the North Star Monthly. Her novels include This Ardent Flame and The Long Shadow (SPUR Award winner); her short fiction shows up in Lilith and elsewhere. Find her memoirs on Medium, her reviews at the New York Journal of Books, her poems in small well-lit places.
(https://bethkanell.medium.com).
Profile / Twitter
Stories That Matter: Books by Beth Kanell
There Is No Illegal Vigil
by C. J. Anderson-Wu
The court decided I am guilty
for organizing a candlelight vigil
on the night of June Fourth
in memory of students killed
thirty-two years ago
They demanded nothing but
what a normal society had
a corruption-free government and
the right to speak their minds
without fear of persecution
But their hope for a better future
their dream for an open world
their wish to have a fearless life
were run over by tanks
Decades later there still is no
government of integrity
transparent policy-making
or public opinion
Everything published is purged by internet censorship
Every citizen is documented by facial recognition systems
Every move is examined and given points by the state
No one is free to express
even lighting a candle for the deceased
even trying to remind the authorities that
June Fourth is still on the calendar every year
I plead not guilty because I guard the memory
I have no intention to subvert your power
If your power is shaken by what people
are still able to remember
it is your fault, not my guilt
Your honor
as a human-rights defender
I represent myself by emphasizing that
love of freedom is not a crime
courage of standing up should not be condemned
Your honor
as a barrister-at-law myself
I defend my action by asserting that
there is no illegal vigil
Author’s Note:
Tonyee Chow Hang-Tung, a Hong Kong lawyer and pro-democracy activist, was convicted for
inciting an unlawful assembly in 2021 under China’s National Security Law. The so-called
unlawful assembly was the vigil held in Hong Kong for victims of the Tiananmen Massacre in
1989, while “64” or “June Fourth” among other keywords of the massacre are filtered out from
all media in China, and Chinese people have no knowledge about it. Tonyee Chow Hang-Tung
refuses to plead guilty for a lenient sentence, currently she is incarcerated in Stanley Prison.
C. J. Anderson-Wu is a Taiwanese writer. In 2017 she published Impossible to Swallow—A Collection of Short Stories About The White Terror in Taiwan and in 2021 The Surveillance—Tales of White Terror in Taiwan. Based on true characters and real incidents, her works look into the political oppression in Taiwanese society during the period of Martial Law (1949-1987), and the traumas resulting from the state’s brutal violation of human rights. Currently she is working on her third book Endangered Youth— To Hong Kong. C. J. Anderson-Wu's stories can be found in the Global Anthologies of Short Stories(US), Eastlit(Southeast Asia), Lunaris Review(Nigeria), Strands Lit Magazine(India), Short Story Avenue(US), Olney Magazine(US), An Capall Dorcha/The Dark House(Ireland), Short Story Town(US), Hennepin Review(US), and Kitaab(Singapore & India) among other literature journals.
https://www.facebook.com/cjandersonwu1
https://www.linkedin.com/in/c-j-anderson-wu-a4673b5/
C.J. Anderson-Wu (@c.j.andersonwu) • Instagram photos and videos
canto
by Laura Parcés Cintrón
Mother Atabeyra,
crystal of Yúcahu,
undress my soul,
grant me my wishes;
I am the river snake,
the grandfather clock,
a crib of memories
salt of the mountain rock.
My ceiling is of amber,
from trees crying liquid gold,
my breath is made of rain winds
and rich tobacco coils.
Fill me, delicacy of nectar;
walk my labyrinths, full moon.
Melt the Goddess with Fire
so that a thousand petals bloom.
Extending my hands, enter,
where eyes bathe with light.
Make me break the silence
that sleeps a thousand nights.
Strip my heart’s veil,
like flowers open in the sun,
join the extension of my being
through creeping roots born from my thumb.
I thank my blessings and offer
my hands, my heart, my voice.
Paint with them on the cosmic walls,
and these feathered crystal caves.
In the dew I caress,
and the orchid I kiss,
holy water for your bodies
and for mine, this.
Caribe
by Laura Parcés Cintrón
I swallowed whole men twice your size
purged three times, half as hard
felt stones pour out of my mouth
and the tip of my fingers turn to bugs
crawling from under my nails
to the little earth beneath me
may I walk through you as easy as light
passes through clear river water
let air escape from my lungs to yours
blacken with sweat and soot,
whiten with resin smoke
and bathe little cities of glass
you’ll keep my heart and guard my soul
while I keep your tongue and keep your voice
black soil
by Laura Parcés Cintrón
mother earth stains my feet
but I don’t mind the needle twigs
I want them to prick my walk
and imbed your touch
on my foot’s arch
crystal waters baptize my womb
and erase old memories of loss
a divine life I once contained
lives with the better Eden
reborn with the stars
now I wish to stain my lungs
with onyx air and silverfish.
deep into Welfare Island
by Laura Parcés Cintrón
These days whisper unsafe words. They describe old songs of war.
A touch of a body is no longer a touch, but a message from gods higher than our own.
I don’t know what the owls say. I don’t speak the mountain lion’s tongue.
But through their golden eyes with streaks of suns, I see a world different than our own.
Rivers that used to be blue are red, crowded with black trees once green.
Life in cerulean skies has accustomed to amber, colors that filled space no longer resound.
A land of balance stands on a scale weighed against a continent of marble.
The wind coughs and croaks with every honk of a horn.
The sound of guns empties the man-made wasteland.
The legends of gold, only murmurs now, barely heard beneath cries of a lost home.
culebrita hecha en sangre [little snake made of blood]
by Laura Parcés Cintrón
blood will not stain skin
maybe dye white cotton
or tattoo pastel streets
it may remain on dead wood walls
but never again will it stain me
Laura Parcés Cintrón was born and raised in the mountains of central Puerto Rico. She grew up in a family of poets and artists who all had a deep and personal connection to nature, the island, and its history. Now a recent graduate with her Bachelor of Arts in Ancient Greek and Latin, she is currently dedicated to projects translating Latin American poetry, including À fonds perdu by Philippe Thoby-Marcelin and Anatomía de lo invisible by Patricia Medina. As a migrant and Latinx woman, in her creative work, she hopes to communicate art inspired by her lived experiences, her exploration of the divine feminine, and her distinct spirituality from her upbringing, in hopes that it will communicate to a wider audience who resonates with them.
Lead Crystal
by Patricia Walsh
I turn my gaze to your infinite ways
of switching off to valid points.
Eating under umbrage to heart's discontent
conveniently ignored under the guise of drinking.
I'd break this lock if I had to.
A combination of desire gets its reward
glistening, unavailable, sleeping alone
and I left bereft, cheated, unfulfilled.
The crystal collection shimmers its wares
“Don't hold what you can't afford”
chimes to my system, unhappy with looking
My prize has conditions too high to keep.
“Not bad for a beginner”. Not nearly enough
to keep me sweet, or even satisfied.
Filing for divorce, dead from frustration
I mourn the imperfections of a lost cause.
Quietly separated, not fanfare, colscaradh,
no apportion of blame on the infinite head,
Too rigorous for me, discipline has gone long ago
giving free rein to more forthcoming pursuits.
Getting ahead is key. I, resigned to failure
search again in the market for a suitable creature
One more gullible than the rest, listen to generous plots
of world domination, my adventures in dross.
Christendom
by Patricia Walsh
Some private Christs make their way
upon some unfortunate soul, seeking affirmation.
Offering an inside track to salvation
plumping up the numbers incessantly.
Disasters happen frequently, without warning
seeking bolt-holes in a time of stress
cursing the powers that be for their actions
the will of God manifests in every blow.
Charity being out of fashion, the archangels
beg for the price of a tea, drinking alcohol
at opportune moments, red-faced, incomprehensible
in between fixes, longing for conversation.
Vanished to another dimension, still being heard
by those still ordinary, nothing special
exalted to a position worthy of a scam
exiled to personal castles by variation.
Invaded intimately by the promised land
focusing on the next event, at the expense of now.
Crowds of people minding business, on their way
sleeping in on Sundays, pulsating greed.
God help us all, because soon we'll need it
tucked up in our beds when the clarion calls
the end of order of things, passing muster
Mortification is a just reward for excess.
Funereal Games
by Patricia Walsh
The cask frames the husk of a man
seeking recognition in his supine state
legend going before him, uncomplex matter
reinforces the station that his soul abides.
Nothing detracts from his be-suited shell.
Save the fragrant chit-chat hovering above,
nor reflected glory detract from his situation
immobile, staid, impervious to commentary.
The priest saw this before, the comely neighbor
recites the last rosary before refreshments served
the beads twisted in his fingers remain silent
until revelation decides who is next to go.
The closeness of relatives fastens the journey
passage to the next life smooths the sorrow
cremating the evidence of another life
closeted congratulations greet each one.
Another box in the ground, another died
suffice to soil is a Hi-Mac's duty
one plot out of many, a surrogate's touch
salves the brutality of frequent bouquets.
The furies circle around your incarceration,
in a perfectly square hole, hugging your corners
a fait accompli eating at your innards
a task unraveled, decomposing on the quiet.
Taming the Wood
by Patricia Walsh
Seeing the forest for the trees
I close the gap on failing needs
wandering through imagery occult
discarded necessities litter the floor.
Thank you, but please don't do that again.
Rolling in pain, subject to exposure
you notch up a failure on your bedpost
losing its flavor overnight.
Persistence through research, what you don't like
is as important as what you do.
An illicit feast, for temporary design
you want it now, irrespective of fatigue.
The joke is long over, a failure to come
wrecks your head no end, a godly deed
all kinds of everything militate against you
except your own actions, ideals realized.
If I love, I love forever. Realizing my mistake
through your incongruous actions in real life
some watershed burns my realization
that you, persistently, failed in your duty.
I eat myself, alone, as desired.
Tea-based life forms such are we in
orderly origins persistent in longing
furious interiors militate against purpose.
You burn against what serves you right
cows humping cows should tell you something
the west Cork refuge bolts against purpose
the agent's wife hitting below par.
A hopeless history reaps some dividends
no sympathetic slur is yours alone.
The contraceptive loophole is always mine
conspiracy against lovers is my only gain.
Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland. To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals across Ireland, The UK, USA, and Canada. She has also published another novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021
Patricia Margaret Walsh (@eurynonymous) • Instagram photos and videos
by Elizabeth Gade
They take away our names and we answer to whatever they call us. I know the color of her hair and the size of skirt she wore but I don’t know if she made it out alive. If she ever made it home. Do any of us make it home? Do you remember? These are the things I wish I could remember. The last time someone spoke the name my mother gave me. The last time someone I loved touched my body gently. The last holiday I celebrated. The last hug I received. Do you remember? In the beginning I let myself remember, but eventually life before fades. The years swallow me whole. There is no before. There is only today, right now, this moment. This pain. This desperation, the animal sickness in the belly. The silent mouth that opens to man, to body, the last communion, the slick steel, the chaliced revolver. You try not to look in the mirror because she is no longer here. You sent her away, but she never made it home. There was no place to go. You are her. The body. The name. I am you. The head that bows. I am here. The pale flanked lamb, broken and begging.
Elizabeth Gade is a bisexual writer and creator of LEO Literary Journal based in the USA. As a human trafficking survivor, her lived experience of abuse and incarceration is what drives her to write and serve her community. She has competed in slam poetry on a local level; she views writing as radical way to show up in the world while connecting to fellow survivors. Poetry has been an important tool in her own journey to heal trauma. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in literary journals & anthologies such as The View Magazine, The Elevation Review, 300 Days Of Sun, Other Worldly Women Press, The GroundUp, The Lindenwood Review, Nine Cloud Journal, The Sober Girls Yoga Magazine and Synkroniciti. She is also working on a full-length poetry memoir manuscript and a free workshop poetry series for women affected by incarceration.
Home | Elizabeth Gade The P (elizabethgadethepo.wixsite.com)
Elizabeth Gade The Poet (@elizabethgadethepoet) • Instagram photos and videos
Because of You
by Beth Kanell
Because you haven’t answered my request, I’m stewing
in suspense. Wondering whether you will allow the
interview. Whether your parole officer (whoever she is)
has said “it’s optional, you don’t have to.” Whether that means
this feels like the only “optional” in what she’s given you,
what you must face each day, raw from change, awkward,
feeling “felon” on your forehead. Whether your new tattoo
(leaves in gray and green) is fresh like a breeze, the same
breeze that I’m breathing, just a couple miles from where you
nestle, flannel sheets starting to feel familiar, so unlike
last year’s coarse cotton in the sour cell. Because I’m waiting
for you to call me back. To break my heart.
Beth Kanell lives in northeastern Vermont. She documents (with care) the lives of Vermonters in the North Star Monthly. Her novels include This Ardent Flame and The Long Shadow (SPUR Award winner); her short fiction shows up in Lilith and elsewhere. Find her memoirs on Medium, her reviews at the New York Journal of Books, her poems in small well-lit places.
(https://bethkanell.medium.com).
Profile / Twitter
Stories That Matter: Books by Beth Kanell
There Is No Illegal Vigil
by C. J. Anderson-Wu
The court decided I am guilty
for organizing a candlelight vigil
on the night of June Fourth
in memory of students killed
thirty-two years ago
They demanded nothing but
what a normal society had
a corruption-free government and
the right to speak their minds
without fear of persecution
But their hope for a better future
their dream for an open world
their wish to have a fearless life
were run over by tanks
Decades later there still is no
government of integrity
transparent policy-making
or public opinion
Everything published is purged by internet censorship
Every citizen is documented by facial recognition systems
Every move is examined and given points by the state
No one is free to express
even lighting a candle for the deceased
even trying to remind the authorities that
June Fourth is still on the calendar every year
I plead not guilty because I guard the memory
I have no intention to subvert your power
If your power is shaken by what people
are still able to remember
it is your fault, not my guilt
Your honor
as a human-rights defender
I represent myself by emphasizing that
love of freedom is not a crime
courage of standing up should not be condemned
Your honor
as a barrister-at-law myself
I defend my action by asserting that
there is no illegal vigil
Author’s Note:
Tonyee Chow Hang-Tung, a Hong Kong lawyer and pro-democracy activist, was convicted for
inciting an unlawful assembly in 2021 under China’s National Security Law. The so-called
unlawful assembly was the vigil held in Hong Kong for victims of the Tiananmen Massacre in
1989, while “64” or “June Fourth” among other keywords of the massacre are filtered out from
all media in China, and Chinese people have no knowledge about it. Tonyee Chow Hang-Tung
refuses to plead guilty for a lenient sentence, currently she is incarcerated in Stanley Prison.
C. J. Anderson-Wu is a Taiwanese writer. In 2017 she published Impossible to Swallow—A Collection of Short Stories About The White Terror in Taiwan and in 2021 The Surveillance—Tales of White Terror in Taiwan. Based on true characters and real incidents, her works look into the political oppression in Taiwanese society during the period of Martial Law (1949-1987), and the traumas resulting from the state’s brutal violation of human rights. Currently she is working on her third book Endangered Youth— To Hong Kong. C. J. Anderson-Wu's stories can be found in the Global Anthologies of Short Stories(US), Eastlit(Southeast Asia), Lunaris Review(Nigeria), Strands Lit Magazine(India), Short Story Avenue(US), Olney Magazine(US), An Capall Dorcha/The Dark House(Ireland), Short Story Town(US), Hennepin Review(US), and Kitaab(Singapore & India) among other literature journals.
https://www.facebook.com/cjandersonwu1
https://www.linkedin.com/in/c-j-anderson-wu-a4673b5/
C.J. Anderson-Wu (@c.j.andersonwu) • Instagram photos and videos
canto
by Laura Parcés Cintrón
Mother Atabeyra,
crystal of Yúcahu,
undress my soul,
grant me my wishes;
I am the river snake,
the grandfather clock,
a crib of memories
salt of the mountain rock.
My ceiling is of amber,
from trees crying liquid gold,
my breath is made of rain winds
and rich tobacco coils.
Fill me, delicacy of nectar;
walk my labyrinths, full moon.
Melt the Goddess with Fire
so that a thousand petals bloom.
Extending my hands, enter,
where eyes bathe with light.
Make me break the silence
that sleeps a thousand nights.
Strip my heart’s veil,
like flowers open in the sun,
join the extension of my being
through creeping roots born from my thumb.
I thank my blessings and offer
my hands, my heart, my voice.
Paint with them on the cosmic walls,
and these feathered crystal caves.
In the dew I caress,
and the orchid I kiss,
holy water for your bodies
and for mine, this.
Caribe
by Laura Parcés Cintrón
I swallowed whole men twice your size
purged three times, half as hard
felt stones pour out of my mouth
and the tip of my fingers turn to bugs
crawling from under my nails
to the little earth beneath me
may I walk through you as easy as light
passes through clear river water
let air escape from my lungs to yours
blacken with sweat and soot,
whiten with resin smoke
and bathe little cities of glass
you’ll keep my heart and guard my soul
while I keep your tongue and keep your voice
black soil
by Laura Parcés Cintrón
mother earth stains my feet
but I don’t mind the needle twigs
I want them to prick my walk
and imbed your touch
on my foot’s arch
crystal waters baptize my womb
and erase old memories of loss
a divine life I once contained
lives with the better Eden
reborn with the stars
now I wish to stain my lungs
with onyx air and silverfish.
deep into Welfare Island
by Laura Parcés Cintrón
These days whisper unsafe words. They describe old songs of war.
A touch of a body is no longer a touch, but a message from gods higher than our own.
I don’t know what the owls say. I don’t speak the mountain lion’s tongue.
But through their golden eyes with streaks of suns, I see a world different than our own.
Rivers that used to be blue are red, crowded with black trees once green.
Life in cerulean skies has accustomed to amber, colors that filled space no longer resound.
A land of balance stands on a scale weighed against a continent of marble.
The wind coughs and croaks with every honk of a horn.
The sound of guns empties the man-made wasteland.
The legends of gold, only murmurs now, barely heard beneath cries of a lost home.
culebrita hecha en sangre [little snake made of blood]
by Laura Parcés Cintrón
blood will not stain skin
maybe dye white cotton
or tattoo pastel streets
it may remain on dead wood walls
but never again will it stain me
Laura Parcés Cintrón was born and raised in the mountains of central Puerto Rico. She grew up in a family of poets and artists who all had a deep and personal connection to nature, the island, and its history. Now a recent graduate with her Bachelor of Arts in Ancient Greek and Latin, she is currently dedicated to projects translating Latin American poetry, including À fonds perdu by Philippe Thoby-Marcelin and Anatomía de lo invisible by Patricia Medina. As a migrant and Latinx woman, in her creative work, she hopes to communicate art inspired by her lived experiences, her exploration of the divine feminine, and her distinct spirituality from her upbringing, in hopes that it will communicate to a wider audience who resonates with them.
Lead Crystal
by Patricia Walsh
I turn my gaze to your infinite ways
of switching off to valid points.
Eating under umbrage to heart's discontent
conveniently ignored under the guise of drinking.
I'd break this lock if I had to.
A combination of desire gets its reward
glistening, unavailable, sleeping alone
and I left bereft, cheated, unfulfilled.
The crystal collection shimmers its wares
“Don't hold what you can't afford”
chimes to my system, unhappy with looking
My prize has conditions too high to keep.
“Not bad for a beginner”. Not nearly enough
to keep me sweet, or even satisfied.
Filing for divorce, dead from frustration
I mourn the imperfections of a lost cause.
Quietly separated, not fanfare, colscaradh,
no apportion of blame on the infinite head,
Too rigorous for me, discipline has gone long ago
giving free rein to more forthcoming pursuits.
Getting ahead is key. I, resigned to failure
search again in the market for a suitable creature
One more gullible than the rest, listen to generous plots
of world domination, my adventures in dross.
Christendom
by Patricia Walsh
Some private Christs make their way
upon some unfortunate soul, seeking affirmation.
Offering an inside track to salvation
plumping up the numbers incessantly.
Disasters happen frequently, without warning
seeking bolt-holes in a time of stress
cursing the powers that be for their actions
the will of God manifests in every blow.
Charity being out of fashion, the archangels
beg for the price of a tea, drinking alcohol
at opportune moments, red-faced, incomprehensible
in between fixes, longing for conversation.
Vanished to another dimension, still being heard
by those still ordinary, nothing special
exalted to a position worthy of a scam
exiled to personal castles by variation.
Invaded intimately by the promised land
focusing on the next event, at the expense of now.
Crowds of people minding business, on their way
sleeping in on Sundays, pulsating greed.
God help us all, because soon we'll need it
tucked up in our beds when the clarion calls
the end of order of things, passing muster
Mortification is a just reward for excess.
Funereal Games
by Patricia Walsh
The cask frames the husk of a man
seeking recognition in his supine state
legend going before him, uncomplex matter
reinforces the station that his soul abides.
Nothing detracts from his be-suited shell.
Save the fragrant chit-chat hovering above,
nor reflected glory detract from his situation
immobile, staid, impervious to commentary.
The priest saw this before, the comely neighbor
recites the last rosary before refreshments served
the beads twisted in his fingers remain silent
until revelation decides who is next to go.
The closeness of relatives fastens the journey
passage to the next life smooths the sorrow
cremating the evidence of another life
closeted congratulations greet each one.
Another box in the ground, another died
suffice to soil is a Hi-Mac's duty
one plot out of many, a surrogate's touch
salves the brutality of frequent bouquets.
The furies circle around your incarceration,
in a perfectly square hole, hugging your corners
a fait accompli eating at your innards
a task unraveled, decomposing on the quiet.
Taming the Wood
by Patricia Walsh
Seeing the forest for the trees
I close the gap on failing needs
wandering through imagery occult
discarded necessities litter the floor.
Thank you, but please don't do that again.
Rolling in pain, subject to exposure
you notch up a failure on your bedpost
losing its flavor overnight.
Persistence through research, what you don't like
is as important as what you do.
An illicit feast, for temporary design
you want it now, irrespective of fatigue.
The joke is long over, a failure to come
wrecks your head no end, a godly deed
all kinds of everything militate against you
except your own actions, ideals realized.
If I love, I love forever. Realizing my mistake
through your incongruous actions in real life
some watershed burns my realization
that you, persistently, failed in your duty.
I eat myself, alone, as desired.
Tea-based life forms such are we in
orderly origins persistent in longing
furious interiors militate against purpose.
You burn against what serves you right
cows humping cows should tell you something
the west Cork refuge bolts against purpose
the agent's wife hitting below par.
A hopeless history reaps some dividends
no sympathetic slur is yours alone.
The contraceptive loophole is always mine
conspiracy against lovers is my only gain.
Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland. To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals across Ireland, The UK, USA, and Canada. She has also published another novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021
Patricia Margaret Walsh (@eurynonymous) • Instagram photos and videos