Contributor Notes

Lisa M. Cole

Lisa M. Cole




After Emptiness


Because I will never have a daughter

& my heart is a rusting copper maze

I fold & falter. I only play a one-handed song.

The echoed horses tell me lies &

my ribs are wishbones. 

I am a half-time widow.


The fates are confusing

in their signs &

the dead bring no news

for weeks. You say, “You look like

an artist right now.” Grace

says nothing.







I have my guises//my crushed porcelain masks//I know no other way//my heart in a bag over my shoulder//this strange money//this hell money//this danger money//money can’t buy me love//money can’t buy me anything at all






by the curve of the cat’s ear//we laser, hide & haze//we ask if birds have ghosts—what they must do to earn them//& I wonder: //when should a thing not be mended?






when all of God’s prophecies//are wrong; when he needs his own oracle—//the dead will bring gifts://spells & concubines;//rooms full with switchblade lovers//this yellow morning, //I am full//with too much June