Meg Pokrass: Three Poems
When I said, I miss America
I meant that what is nestled in my brain feels like a harbor.
Meg Pokrass: Enlightened Adventures of Mark Zuckerberg
“Say, is that a dorsal fin in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?” she blurts, all seaweed hair, bioluminescent lipstick, wiggling like a stuck jellyfish— illuminating unseen caves of Mark Zuckerberg’s shipwrecked heart.
Meg Pokrass: Like she is
he doesn’t like
this Earth so much that he might live
here and be ruined like she is he
says
Meg Pokrass: Traveling Companion
The ratio of sad men to happy men was tilting toward sad. Single men were sad and claimed to not be attracted to people anymore. They changed their names and dyed their hair. They had dead cats. She was getting used to it.
Meg Pokrass: Moments with Crochet Hooks
Back then she and her mother waited for the phone to ring, for money to plump itself up and walk through their door. Moments passed with yarn and crochet hooks.
Meg Pokrass & Jeff Friedman: Wig
The wig arrived in a pretty pink box. I’d ordered it online from a wig shop. Silky, blonde and long, it felt as if I were entertaining a movie star in my hallway. Grace Kelly in a box on my couch. So nice to meet you, I said, slipping it on.
Meg Pokrass: The Interruption
I’ll do the liberating for both of us, doll, he says.
Meg Pokrass: The Original Life of Bob
Bob’s ego sometimes got stuck and its nobody’s business where.
Meg Pokrass: Trophy Wife
It was the sound of our lawn, the hiss of sprinklers, that chilled me. That year Jack erected a barbed wire fence to keep the scum out, keep the Mansons away.
Vox Populi: An Interview With Our Editor
On Friday, we caught up with poet, blogger, editor and activist Michael Simms at his kitchen table where he was preparing his Saturday morning post for Vox Populi.
Meg Pokrass: Summersaulting To Shore
My dark-haired lover explained marriage was like an animal. “There’s a smell when it dies,” he said. I let my marriage trickle out.
Meg Pokrass: Between Animals
I imagined climbing the Everest of his body, perching on the top of his belly like a sexy squid, dangling my breasts over the shelf of his face like fishing lines.
Meg Pokrass: Puppy Breath
I had his phone number, the guy from the A.A. meeting. I held it in my hands. I was terrible on the phone, but he would never call me. He said he couldn’t approach women. It was up to me.
