Hopewell Bay
March 16, 2016Hybrid Poetry by Cynthia Neely
A confession: I fell in love with grief.
A confession: I fell in love with grief.
Listen, Pocket ~ there are three shoes to fear ~ they will dance
In August, in New Orleans, in love, the heat is animal, the scent of magnolia hangs in the air the way smoke fills a crowded bar.
How is madness inherited? What are the fine lines that connect us?
Lines don’t come cheap or easy. It just sounds as if they do.
Because that’s the sweet spot I’ve learned to aim for—the moment when readers snicker or make fake barfing noises.
It’s moments like these that are as familiar as holding hands or moving in synchronicity under the bed sheets.