Tuesday, May 12, 2026

Tuesday poem #684 : Amirah Al Wassif : Ode to Eve

 

 

 

I still recall the last time I spoke to an alien, or perhaps merely imagined it to be so. It happened immediately after the first drops of blood—later known as menstruation—appeared. I curled up in a corner, watching the wall where it walked in transparent attire, playing cards next to a widow spider. I don't know if it was truly a widow, but perhaps my mood at the time made me assume it.
From that moment, I imagined Eve dreaming of the respectable apple. Imagined her exhausted, suffering the cycle. Imagined her startled by the fact of her femaleness. I saw her in my mind attempting to flee the obsessive-compulsive disorder, the doubt, and the petty anxieties. Imagining herself pregnant, her belly immense, and her legs swollen from fluid retention. I pictured her with one eye open and one eye closed, like a resting wolf.
Then the alien suddenly stung me; I opened my eyes and found it wearing Adam's mask, recounting the familiar story from the perspective of the victim who fell into the trap of temptation

 

 

 

 

Amirah Al Wassif is an award-winning poet and published author. Her poetry collection For Those Who Don’t Know Chocolate was published in February 2019 by Poetic Justice Books & Arts, followed by the illustrated children’s book The Cocoa Boy and Other Stories in February 2020. In 2022, Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company released her poetry collection How to Bury a Curious Girl, and her latest collection, The Rules of Blind Obedience, was published in December 2024.

Her work has appeared in numerous print and online publications, including South Florida Poetry, Birmingham Arts Journal, Hawaii Review, The Meniscus Chiron Review, The Hunger, Writers Resist, Right Now, Reckoning, New Welsh Review, and Event Magazine, among others.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, May 05, 2026

Tuesday poem #683 : Kiik Araki-Kawaguchi : i will leave when mountains walk

 

 

 

I will leave when mountains walk

And mountain giant obliterates me

I will leave though first I will be

A thousand invisible creatures

Vole and wasp and a little bramble

Who keep praying

Let me never fucking leave

And I will burn every angel

Who comes for me

Until all my robes

Are the robes of dead angels

I will leave when I have been crushed

By every tree in the forest

And if after my 6000 rebirths

I have no eyes to see you

No ears that hear you

And I am slug not even cute-ugly

Ok time to hang em up

After this last game

I lie down

You leap

Scatter your dreams across me

 

This poem was inspired by, and borrows language from, “Rune Poems from Bergen, Norway, Thirteenth and Fourteenth Century” by an unknown author, translated from the runic alphabet by Eirill Alvilde Falck. 

 

 

Kiik Araki-Kawaguchi is the author of DISINTEGRATION MADE PLAIN AND EASY (Piżama Press) and THE BOOK OF KANE AND MARGARET (FC2 / UAP).

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, April 28, 2026

Tuesday poem #682 : Patrick O’Reilly : EL CAMINO

 

 

Boasting a box capacity of almost
33 cubic feet, and 17 miles to a gallon,
the Chevrolet El Camino combined
the rugged durability of a pickup
with a sedan’s sleek, suburban profile.
3-Speed automatic, CID V8 engine,
and with 400 horses under the hood
this baby could definitely fuck.
It was the perfect vehicle for anyone
who couldn’t make a decision
and wanted to do it fast. You
could drive an El Camino if
you didn’t know who you were,
or just where you were going,
or how you wanted to get there,
how much you wanted to bring with you,
or who you were willing to leave in the dust.
A vehicle of pure possibility,
no certain past and no real future.
You could run out for groceries
or run from the cops. Cruise the main drag,
back and forth, all night, for eternity,
past the unchanging Texaco sign,
the Jiffy Lube, the Burger King, the eyes
in the rearview mirror
becoming luggage. You could
take the rugrats up to the lake,
you could pack your bags and leave
in the El Camino. You could drive all night.
You could be a car. You could be a truck.

 

 

 

 

Patrick O’Reilly is a poet from Renews, NL, and a research monitor for the Hearn Institute for Fractal Nissography. Patrick is responsible for two chapbooks: A Collapsible Newfoundland (Frog Hollow Press, 2020) and Demographics Report, November 2023 (Cactus Press, 2024).

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan