by Rochelle Roberts || The forest, large-eyed, dank and disordered.
Category: Poetry
After The Virus
The magpies warbled to tell us come out
White Boredom
Rochelle Roberts You, with teeth and white boredom,tangled in my sheets, your fingers stuffed inside, as though you think I might enjoy it. I pretend to be a hollowed-out tree, bear-furred around the wound, yourprofile reminding me of old grievancesrattling around my head like loose teeth. I hate the coldness of your lips on myindifferent skin. My body sinks [...]
Ayesha (2)
Manisha Chummun I wish I could begin a painting of her. I grabbed a paint brush. Too bad, I'm just a poet with clumsy hands. I figured out her paradox, The girl who can suffuse La Dolce Vita, Bringing colors and sweet scents to a nondescript workplace, also has the blatant appeal of a Chiaroscuro art composition. Here I am, sitting [...]
Musings over Metamorphosis
Yuan Changming Sure, I would paint my skin Into a colorless color, & I would dye my hair Wear two blue contacts, & I would even Go for plastic surgery, but if I really do I assure you, I will not remove my native village Accent while speaking this foreign tongue (I began To imitate [...]
Rockpools
You are green tea and gentle hands in the morning.
My Mother Calls Me Circe: A Dream Vision
the archeologist demands a beginning ––
The Wolves and The Woodcutter
He found her in the wood, he said
On Deliverance
and then the confession.
Two Poems
Punctuating Space; and China Lake
