Breaking Bread

October 21, 2015


for Christopher T George, after “All That Glitters”

All night, the surface of the earth’s been
hidden beneath snow-floured cloth of linen —
now the sun peeks above the bread-pan rim

of the horizon, ready to slide into the oven
on a cold December day. I want to warn it:
the oven isn’t ready, everything is gray,

better to wait, you’ll never bake —
but a hope for sunlight doesn’t take advice,
there’s no reason to waste breath on warnings,

better to listen for the bell for Matins —
it will ring faint and late today, its call
to chorus and communion muffled by the snow.

I’d like my feet to answer that cold iron cry,
bundle in a parka that saw its first winter
in Europe, 1942. I’d like to join the faithful

ones who gather there in sanctuary, sit in
back, listen to their voices warming, hear
the scratchy grackles becoming golden larks.

I wish there was a seat above the chancel
where I could stow away, let the reverberations
of the organ fashioned in some other century

tumble through me, heat my cells. I’d like
to peek, hidden and unseen, between the rails,
watch the faithful queue up for communion,

kneel for the sacrament, see the emissary
place small disks of unbaked sun between
their lips, hear the whispered blessings.

Cold stained glass held by lead threads will
light then, the sun will find its own way in,
touch upturned faces with its grace-hued hands.

My friend, my friend, it’s winter, it’s the time
of all things ending, the time it’s always darkest —
and the time we most remember all those who’ve

gone before. Tonight when you sing “Auld Lang
Syne,” remember this acquaintance. I will not
wait till Evensong. I’ll pray for you at Matins.

Laura M Kaminski

(Laura M Kaminski is an associate editor at Right Hand Pointing; a listing of her poetry and collections may be found HERE)

The Lodger’s Washing

October 21, 2015

Out on the line, the lodger’s washing
mimes his ineptitude. As though hung
by a child, pegged wherever, on whim:
T shirts heap on the cord’s virtual floor,
toeless socks dangle by nipped threads
besides trousers mocking spastic scarecrows.

Long wet days it is out there, flagging
Bachelorhood: dark grey bunting
giving the flick to the wind
while he pays Guinness to ferry him
through the pleasures of forgetting
all the girls who’ll never sleep with him.

Ros Barber

I look good…

October 21, 2015


I am overweight. But to me, it’s fat. I don’t have Body Dysmorphic Disorder. When I look in the mirror I don’t plunge into a depression and stick my finger down my throat or carve FAT in my arm with a pickle fork. I can appreciate when I look good aside from the weight. Sometimes I might say, Oh, I’m having a good face day. And a few times, after checking my appearance in the mirror before a date, I’d say, Okay. I’d date me. And I know if I ever could get the extra tonnage off, I’d be the first one to parade around in my underwear, or have no qualms about getting naked with a hottie, while the lights were still on in the room.”

Kelli Jae Baeli
Bettered by a Dead Crustacean

presenting her ass…

October 21, 2015


“Oh, is my baby’s little pussy finally getting wet?” He put his hand on her knee.

She tried to cross her legs. “Yes, and it’s a lot. It feels very messy.”

He could smell her now. Bending over and presenting her ass had done something for her. So had dirty talk. Yeah, he could talk dirty. “Messy is good. I want that pussy dirty and ripe when I start to eat it.”

Lexi Blake
A Dom is Forever


She tried to tear herself away from him. The effort broke against his arms that had not felt it. Her fists beat against his shoulders, against his face. He moved one hand, took her two wrists, pinned them behind her, under his arm, wrenching her shoulder blades. She twisted her head back. She felt his lips on her breast. She tore herself free…She fought like an animal. But she made no sound. She did not call for help. She heard the echoes of her blows in a gasp of his breath, and she knew that it was a gasp of pleasure…She felt the hatred and his hands; his hands moving over her body, the hands that broke granite. She fought the last convulsion. Then the sudden pain shot up, through her body, to her throat, and she screamed. Then she laid still. It was an act that could be performed in tenderness, as a seal of love, or in contempt, as a symbol of humiliation and conquest. It could be an act of a lover or the act of a soldier violating an enemy woman. He did it as an act of scorn. Not as love, but as defilement. And this made her still and submit…the act of a master taking shameful , contemptuous possession of her was the kind of rapture she had wanted…”

Ayn Rand
The Fountainhead


Probably true…

October 21, 2015

Probably true


“I’ll tell you the only real truth. Cunt is where it all begins and where it all ends. Cunt is the only thing worth living for. Everything else is a fake, a fraud and just shit.”

Mario Puzo
Fools Die