…because I have seen,
and seen the remnants of,
a fellow at a urinal
raise his arm
to prop his
wobbled, blurry self
more firm against the wall,
and leave there,
at his highest reach,
some nephrite
from his nostril,
one thing I highly doubt
a Wellesley girl
would do.
Rodd Whelpley is the secret poet in residence at the Illinois Municipal Electric Agency. His work recently has appeared or is forthcoming in Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Literary Orphans, Pudding, Shot Glass Journal, Right Hand Pointing, Spillway, The Naugatuck River Review, Eunoia Review, Antiphon, The Chagrin River Review and others.
spider up her thigh in the dimly lit room
held down, stared down
embers of the abyss snap around her
My father sexually abused me.
When I got married,
I hyphenated my name.
No one questioned it at the time.
But in the middle of my parents’ late divorce,
everyone wants to know about names.
Nietzsche warned us not to look
long into the abyss, or it will look long
into us.
It was finally
his home until
abruptly
his mind flashed
all the times he had entered a
boy
i was depressed,
and i wanted
to take a
walk;
you said you'd join me—
didn't mean i wanted
netflix and chill,
it happened before words came
to tell me how to feel about it
newly connected neurons torn apart
or perverted—
forever firing blanks into the microbiological air
As a child
The lessons taught
Can bring a pain never thought.
The lessons on trust
And heartache
Sear the soul.