John Roth \ Monsoon 2015
* To the citywide displacement of every Jane Doe Hooves wrenching in the weed-sprung concrete; somewhere a heel is lost. By curbside pools she sees a jilted reflection. The mirror darkens, fills itself with her decadent shadow. Already, the lean pink ribbons worming through her muddy hair pulled back like antlered rivals. From tongue to trimming, her white dress a saltlick. Both coif & coffin neatly arranged so as to favor one or starve from fever. Cracks the wicker lacework of her legless table set & heart not just a wiry cage sewn shut, but thrashing animal inside. To tie together veins without a broken leash, until she’s reared a goddess, an upstart in their midst. * Desire In two faces perpetually wary of the other but destined to meet in the most mundane places. In the trembling shadow of a man. In the way a person’s hands can move over you like the sky, but slower. Slower. Blue-fingered lover. In luxurious sighs and the exhalation of soft rolling flesh. In that one moment a person breathes only for you. In the crease of a woman’s painted lips. In her hips. In a man’s aftershave, his cheap, spray-on cologne. In another person altogether. * |
John Roth is incapable of coming with a clever bio. His work has appeared in, or is forthcoming from, The Bitter Oleander, The Apeiron Review, Defenestration, and Bird's Thumb among others.
|