Poem Author: Maurya Simon

Vernal House

by Maurya Simon: Tiny minarets of dew balance on blade-tips.

Doomsday

by Maurya Simon: Slowly, like a hot tear tracing the skin’s folds, / God drew His finger along my parted lips,

The Fallen Angel

by Maurya Simon: One more tithe to the altar of seductions: / a rose tattoo on her rotund rump, and for that / she’s lifted her dress, tucks a round of bills / into her sequinned G-string, her lips pursed.