Michael Larri:

Monday mornings

you’ll be air
you’ll feel
better and better
because your mouth
is home to music
your bones carry old rhymes
so smooth you laugh inside
you become a party of happy teens
you think your body is
home to failure?
you think your skin is
dripping sadness?
why do I see you glitter like
salt then?


D.E. Benson:

After Michael Larri’s Monday mornings

. . .or, monday mornings are for emptiness
and smoke, because you wake up
and the the space where your body
once occupied is now a heap of dreams burning. . .
you know what it means to die every morning,
a skill your father passed down through an un-named gene,
you know how to feel
like nothing, to taste like nothing
a hand that used to be your father’s voice
pushing you from one command to another
and because something tells you
it is deadly to the heart
to not blow out the remains of burnt dreams
you learn to whistle through it


Michael Larri lives in a village too remote to be real. He writes when stuff comes in to be dropped down. D.E. Benson is completing a degree in English and literature. He edited poetry for The Muse 45, a journal of creative and critical writing of the Department of English and Literary Studies, University of Nigeria, Nsukka.

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