Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

— Virginia Woolf

Shinjini Bhattacharjee

August 29, 2016




to peer into its hidden darkness, hunched

up against itself like a peeled moon.


Hungrier than the inside of a locket, more sober—

how the bark, the branches liberate around it.


She remembers her mother, how the forest took her

as if she never existed. She watched the wind slipping

rudely inside her heart, rapt and aware.


(continue . . .)


Wale Owoade

June 28, 2016




After lightning comes rain.

I will go looking for shadows


in their honeymoons. One day

there would be no sky, only


a silhouette searching for itself.

When I am tired of searching


for proof that God exists, I will

pour ashes inside a glass and ask


(continue . . .)


Sarah Fawn Montgomery

June 28, 2016




And witnesses the world

exactly as it is, but in reverse.

The stone walls of the room

seem the same, except now

it appears the door is to the left,

cold creeping in from the cracks.

The low cot rests in the other corner

with the wool blanket he sewed

last fall alongside a dozen men,

each a hunched version of the other.


(continue . . .)



The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water.

—Cervantes, Don Quixote

© 2016 The Indianola Review