#sundoglit

[csheapoet]

By Cathryn Shea Like tomes. Stacks like pages and pages of writing, corn tortillas are what I crave, what keep me writing. My husband brings home Mi Rancho “Pure Tortilla Joy” stone-ground whole ke…

[thevulgar]

AND NAIL | Dalton Day

How’d it get so quiet here? It was only a hundred years ago that I first finished counting my teeth. I guess we’ve reached a new kind of house. We wheel away what we can’t carry. I am dizzy. I am a mess of glowing things. I don’t like to eat apples as much as I should. Everything is safe today. We will never again have to use the word hallelujah properly. Stay healthy. Oh, this big and beautiful death. It’s something else. Meet me in the mouth of the cave. We can watch the night skin itself trying to figure out who let the devil into its home.

[thevulgar]

PARLIAMENT | Dalton Day

No! Really! Owls have begun to roost inside my belly! Members of my family! Believe! That this turn of events! Is an omen! Of death! Or something similarly sinister! But this is not so! They are so soft! They are so warm! Mother! They watch over me! As I sleep! They ward off the ghosts at my door! I cannot be haunted! Anymore! Mother! Before the owls! My body was filled with such empty barns! Before the owls! Mice moved elegantly between my bones! Not anymore! The owls are in my heart! The owls have nested in my heart! If they are death! Then death is not something to fear! Death is something! That takes care of you! Until it can’t anymore! Death! Is only death! Leaving!

[mollyrosequinn]

My new poem in Sundog Lit's series of works inspired by Dolan Morgan's new collection:

Stead by Molly Rose Quinn

In a house, remember the bricks,

first painted blue, then gray,

I’m descending a stair (maroon),

a reminiscent clog.

Here a little ego:

stun, stun, bush, lamp.

When it is January I know my father

is dismantling a lit village.

The lab abuses

the driveway’s right spot:

where the insistence

of dogwood tree

ruins the blacktop.

Interior design like your claw

on my neck, I love it, where a stroke

of hand distinguishes.

On a day like that,

I wear my good gray jacket,

favorite jeans,

hair in braids that I’ve slept on,

they don’t do what I like them to,

a little congestive fuck

you to holidays forthcoming.

The leaves installed opposed

to the laundry room to say:

All our lusty totems

singeing the fringe off, a riff,

a horn from the head of a girl,

a jurassic yes.

Our good house,

the speckled back ladder,

a spiral stair that led from the pool

to the master bedroom,

the trickling boyfriend

sinking soap into his clothes

here, for me, to rid, a man

affixed to measures.

[iheartfailure]

I have a poem in here. Based on who else is in the issue, it's amazing. Read the whole thing please.