Need Plants need soil and water and sunlight. Except in third grade we grew lima beans in the window in plastic baggies with only wet paper

SENTIMENT oh, that the birds would not fly south for the winter, that we were in Capistrano or at least Barbados.

NIGHT SKY I saw Orion the Hunter and he bled

Tattooing My Silence If my mind had a voice of its own

A letter to my ideal self You, girl, have got it all figured out.

Breaking point In a moment of anger at the world, disbelief that the universe has more still to throw our way, I slam my palms

Wind Heed the power and the warning of the mother winds.

/ˈkɒndɪfluːɪɑ/ noun: condifluoia; plural noun: condifluoia 1. the specific scent of tea leaves in boiling water

the pleats of nani’s gold-bordered kancheepuram saree gently bracing the grass as she moves in the garden

Circa 2017 time in my throat, melting like the backwash of july

Birth of mosaic When you pulled me from the hearth, limb by limb, I was still crackling with the fire that melded my bones

Enmesh every death diminishes you

Paul Robert Mullen is a poet, musician and sociable loner from Liverpool, U.K.

Portrait of a girl with bridle & isn’t it pretty to imagine being the kind of person you could love in a different life

Cleaning My Father’s Dojo After Carolyn Forche

Ghazal For All The Hungry Creatures Wrack filled girl. Rare as embered lake the poet mistakes for golden boat.

The Burglars After Natalie Diaz My Abuelita was ironing, her eyes steaming with light. I was making no sudden movements. No sudden sound.

Corpses are Clattering I see milky spoons Littered on the bypass.

The Potato Eaters Vincent dipped figurative fingers in Earthen bowls, Sodden— Years of sweat.

Fire of Flesh Tumblers, Nine glittering glasses, Jam out at once, I lip out: The Song of Body Electric Whitman sung— My mood afire.