Glass Poetry Press

Volume Five Issue One

Joan McNerney


With sweat lingering on her face, she colored her room. Tinted now like insides of ripe plums, like perfect grapes. When the sizzling lemon sun dropped from heaven … night became moist and black. Her fan whirled thick air stained with cigarettes coffee, turpentine, white wine. She sank into her wicker couch as fog horns trailed the horizon. Lotus screech relentlessly for water always wanting more more more water.