Category: love (Issue No. V)

Cupid

Wilda Morris

With two repeated lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream
by William Shakespeare

Cupid is a knavish lad,
mischievous as any child
thus to make poor females mad.

When he shoots a great dyad,
wound and flame are reconciled.
Cupid is a knavish lad,

playful is he, more than bad—
or so you think when you’re beguiled.
Thus to make poor females mad,

he winks his eye and plays the cad,
lets his arrows fly off wild.
Cupid is a knavish lad.

When men think that love’s a fad,
they play tricks on those who smiled
thus to make poor females mad.

Oft his arrows still go bad.
Many heartaches he’s compiled.
Cupid is a knavish lad
thus to make poor females mad.

Wilda Morris

Love Poems That Are Not About Suffering Are Difficult

Lauren Boisvert

I told you I was writing love poems
and you said     oh no
like you knew they’d be about you;
I could’ve been writing
about the impeccable love
between cat and person
but instead, yes, I wrote about you
am currently writing about talking about writing
about you.
There’s some psychology about that somewhere
I’m sure:
Freud or Rilke or the great philosopher Siken.
Writing about writing
about someone you love
is a shallow act
like an old prospector panning for gold
praying for that little nugget of pure inspiration
an angel’s tear
unearthed from water
this poem is neither tear nor nugget
but something unpolished and raw
an unrefined wisdom on a shelf at the Goodwill
dusted off and taken home
with someone who collects neither nuggets nor tears
but cyclical renderings
of words and fat
a richness like a snake eating its own tail
and enjoying it.

I hold your cheek to mine
and I feel like I’m looking at the base of a globe
the light-up one I had as a child
suffused blue light and multicolored countries
I traced them all in marker
like I trace my fingernails along your back now
staring into that light
white Antarctica blazing in it’s frigid shell.

Lauren Boisvert

Still unsent

Carl Alexandersson

‘I think I’m in love with you…’

that is what the text says
all written out but
still unsent
as my thumb is hovering
above the arrow
to send
said text

for context
it is a Friday night
2 am
and I’ve had a glass of rosé
I’ve had two glasses
of rosé
I’ve had
enough.
glasses. of. rosé.

and we all know where this is going
don’t we?
we can collectively
agree
that this text is probably
a bad idea
but
I’m thinking about you
right now
you are the only coherent thing in my
mind
right now

and I need you
to know
that even when my entire world is
spinning, you are solid ground
to me
a safe place
to land
for me;
you are my rock
my paper and my scissors
with you
we both win

there is no competition
among the two of us
that is, my friends
are currently competing
for my attention
but
my face is glued to my phone
my usual three second attention span
somehow
disabled
somehow
you are everything that matters to me
right now

and it’s crazy
because I never planned on falling for
you; you
are my best friend—
and somehow
my life
is now a Netflix un-original series
where a guy falls in love
with his best friend

(and I guess
that it isn’t really that crazy
of a concept
but it still caught me
off guard
okay??)

my friends say
that we’re leaving for
the club
and I am forced out
of my bubble, I stumble
to my feet
still staring
at my phone; unable
to make a decision

you know
how sometimes
the smallest decision
turns out to make the biggest difference
but you can only ever know that
looking back
and never in the moment?
this moment
could be
fleeting
and you wouldn’t even
know it

we’re in the street
suddenly, my friends and I
walking
(if you can call it that)
towards the club
my face still glued to my phone
barely looking
up

isn’t it weird
how sometimes
you stop
and look
around
and realize
you can’t
quite
figure
out
how
you got to
where
you are.

in life
I mean;
I never imagined
myself in love
with you
yet
here we are

and
my drunk brain
tells me
that I need you
to tell
you
right this second
before it’s too late
before someone else sends a drunk text
confessing their love
for you
at 2 am
and I am
caving
in

this entire situation
is like
an essay due in less than 24 hours
that I only just started
in that
I don’t want to rush things
with you
but I don’t know how
to take things
slow
I need you
to know

and
so
I
press
send
.
.
.

and I
immediately try
to will the text to unsend
itself
but the damage
is done; the friendship
is ruined
(and I know
that I’m being dramatic
but I’ve had way too much rosé
so let me
have my moment)
it is not every day
that you confess
your love
for someone

why don’t we do that
more often?
why does this have to feel
like
such a big deal?
does it really have to be?
and
why does it have to be
2 am
for me to ask myself
these questions?

there is no
answer
and so I shove the phone
in my pocket
and take a few quick
steps to catch
up
with my friends

no matter what
happens
I am proud
that I told you
and I might regret this
in the morning
(almost certainly)
but that
is not
the issue for the moment

and in this moment
everything
is out
in
the open
there is
nothing
holding
me
down
anymore.

I am currently
floating
along the street
towards the club
with my friends
and we’re all
bubbly and cheery
and the possibilities
are endless

and I realize
that
I have never felt
more alive
than tonight.

Carl Alexandersson

I love ….

Marcelle Newbold

your shining light that cannot be hidden,
your curves and dimples that are just for me,
your perfect fit.

I love the way you melt, to my pleasure,
that delicious craving,
the promise careful undressing brings.

Ode to Ferrero Rocher

Marcelle Newbold

Strawberries

Kim Malinowski

Lying on our stomachs we suck strawberries,
dabbing them in sugar, grasping them,
as plump lips bite.
Each granule of sweet,
a promise.
Forever lazy sunshine, park picknicks,
fresh mown grass.
Sticky fingers caress cheeks,
slide along collar bones.
Strawberries promise love
even with age,
with fever.
We vow forever,
both tart and sweet.

Kim Malinowski

Like It Is

Anna Teresa Slater

Everyone always told me what love would look like.
How love would sashay in through a hollow in the trees.
Everyone made fairy sighs, declaiming how candy-yellow butterflies
would swarm or hover above my chair before swooping in.

How it might bid me hello like a warm pixie’s shudder.
How I’d be under a spell, floating in sparkly air, how I’ll just know
when love is there and they were right but why is it that no one
ever told me how to make love stay when it pointed the other way?

How not to stumble on the steps after the midnight hour.
No one told me that love could bite. Love needs to bare it all, ogre and claw.
I don’t mean to go on like this but love needs to uncover its flaws.
Let me have tea with the brewing witches beneath the flowers,

so that when love arrives again, whether love slays a giant or reverts to frog,
I will be queen of my tower, a master of hearts, vulnerable but armed.

Anna Teresa Slater

Hiraeth

Whitney Hansen

You were my husband for an evening,
when you pretended not to graze my arm at the dinner table.

Our first kiss did not happen when your friend left the room.

We whispered “I love you”s in the grocery store,
but they all came out as cost calculations per ounce.

We stood side by side at the kitchen’s altar,
but never clasped hands.
There were no “I do”s,
only “Should I put this in the freezer?”

Our first kiss did not happen
when I did not offer you a ride home.

Our first kiss did not happen.

Whitney Hansen

geeky and the beast

Jasmine Arch

i wonder
what the gods
were thinking

when they matched
my love and me

he watches sports
on tv
while I cradle
a book
in my lap

he spends hours
punching buttons
on a game controller

and i don’t hear
a single
of his virtual gunshots

bombs could go off
on the screen
or in the room

i would be
none the wiser
as i get lost
in rabbit holes
of my own devising

words tumbling
from my brain
rolling
over my fingers
onto a blank page

sometimes
he shakes his head
and i can almost
hear his thoughts

how
did i end up
marrying such a geek

don’t get me wrong
i love
every inch of ink
on his skin
the body
that wears khaki
so well
the mind i can make
neither head nor tail of

my mouth will run dry
and my legs turn to jelly
at the merest
of his kisses

polar opposites
that’s what we are

they probably thought
it would be funny

but when we stare
at each other’s jokes
like a mime
at a stand-up comedian

the question
is no longer
what they were thinking
but rather what they were drinking
and why
on earth
they didn’t share it with me

Jasmine Arch