There is such a thing called the big gay lotteryĪ game with odds that are not in your favorĪnd while winning half the lottery is, in itself, She lives in Wayland, Massachusetts with her wife Anne Parker and their English Setter, Macy Mae. She is also a Certified Dog Massage Therapist and owner of Canine Massage Works. Lisa is an Assistant Professor of English at Pine Manor College and Director of the Undergraduate English and Creative Writing Program. She is the recipient of a Wayland Cultural Council Grant and is using it to establish a Poetry Garden along Lake Cochituate. In 2015 she was a finalist for the Barbara Deming Memorial Grant and the runner-up for the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize. Lisa Breger is a poet, writer and educator. Pay my damn rent for once without gnawing a meatless bone. Sad, I'm not like her, pulling on the leash. To nose fresh air or scent of a Labrador, She takes it in her teeth and gestures at the door-Īffectionate nip at the hand or scratch at the doorknob Some of her poems and translations have appeared in Adrienne, Berkeley Poetry Review, Lavender Review, Mezzo Cammin, and other publications. Her first book, A Crown of Violets (Headmistress Press, 2015), offers a selection of translations from the French poetry of Renée Vivien.
in Comparative Literature at the University of Pennsylvania. Who knows what demons haunt those headland cliffs? She warns of crows’ feet, moles, and spider veinsīefore the birds and bees begin to breed. Inscribed the walls with purple prophecies Their God was dying, no one would be saved, Where someone, once, had sheltered from the stormsĪnd priests, imagining those tremors meant Volcanic blasts, and monthly tidal waves-Īll sent my settlers scrambling for their ships! I’ve charted maps but never marked a path She facilitates Omaha Writers Group, a weekly writing workshop open to the public, and is a teaching artist for Nebraska Writers Collective. Work has appeared in Plainsongs, Creative Nonfiction, burntdistrict, and elsewhere. Williams is a poet living and working in Omaha, Nebraska. She teaches at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Her essay on long distance cycling "Seven Cities of Good" is an honorable mention for the Pacific Literary Review's 2015 Creative Nonfiction Award. She is also the author of Drink (BlazeVOX ), winner of the 2016 Independent Publisher Bronze Book Award and Intimates and Fools (Les Femmes Folles) with artist Sally Brown Deskins, an Honor Book for the 2015 Nebraska Book Award. Laura Madeline Wiseman’s recent books are An Apparently Impossible Adventure (BlazeVOX ) and Leaves of Absence (Red Dashboard).
Mug life omaha lgbt poetry plus#
If I asked you sometimes to write letters, to fold them over and tucked inside other folds, to seal your notes with your eyes only and I love you and our initials daggered by hearts, pinched by arrows, all those plus signs like paper was a tree we’d carved into, would you deny my reverie, my need to remember a time before I became what I’ve become? Would you recount how we overslept, forgot to slip through the deck door, and your sister discovered me naked, legs splayed, with lean, athletic you, your cheek on my breast and your body twisted around mine like vine. If I asked you sometimes to tie me to the tall posts that border the bed, would you know to unfurl bright ribbons from my pockets? To loop a length of green velvet around each wrist-not to injure but to bind, not to pain but to awaken? As you near my now-quiet still-open mouth, I breathe out the wind that had blown in from the nearest ocean three thousand miles away. Was I confused by your lips in my hair, your fingers on the edge of my jeans, your cheek as it grazed my own? I wasn’t confused. I confuse love with want and want with your danger, your dark tee shirts and loose jeans, your pale wrists and lean thighs scarred by cuttings.
I’m confused by social media, sometimes friendly, sometimes girl-on-girl drama, underlaid by ads that tell me what I want, where I’ve searched, what I’ve already purchased. Every day, the sky still blue, the clouds big and building, the fields that surround these lanes of traffic and city sprawl wide and open with lovely. Am I? Would that be so bad? I am confused by the trees, the paths in the city, what blooms when and where. Head to head, you sighed onto my eyelids and whispered, You’re confused. You whispered words I heard and couldn’t hear. Smudged in dark hues, your eyes fluttered and crinkled. Horizontal on the wide bed, pinned under stars, mid-forest of the city, I said I love you, two moons since we shared a round of cheese, hot mugs of spiced tea, the humid mid-summer air. Maybe They Were Waiting For A Friend (2015)
Don’t decide to die without consulting me