The Swan Motel

By Alan Yuch

 

The hot nights, the swelter,

even the walls would sweat.

Sweet Marcy in the same cotton dress,

patterned with red, white and blue balloons.

The windowless room, matching walls,

the air-flooded neon.

This room was meant for sleeping,

this room that drove Marcy mad.

Quiet static behind the pictures in the television,

the crunch of the red-crusted carpet.

Tissues dispensed from the wall, pink and stiff.

Marcy thought she could fake love.

They called her the Angel, shining once –

the only one to never be beaten.

She always did want to fly.

 

Say You Love Me

By John Tottenham

 

“I love you,” she says,

and my heart sinks.

Knowing what is required of me, 

I attempt to reciprocate.

But it’s a struggle, 

the words won’t take shape.

No other phrase is so hard to articulate; 

no other sentiment is voiced so apprehensively. 

I could be honest and say: I love you

but almost everything about you annoys me…

But somehow 

those three precious, perilous syllables 

are squeezed out, squeamishly:

“Isle… of you.”

It never sounds right when I say it, 

but I say it

to put her at ease,

because what you get out of it, 

temporarily,

is peace.