Asheville poetry

All posts tagged Asheville poetry

Prom Queen [Not Autobiographical]

Published August 8, 2015 by April Fox

I never could have been the prom queen,

perfect hair and teeth and nails, smiling sweetly for the cameras

humble under my sash and crown and waiting for the crowd to blink

and offer up the chance to pull the flask out from between my legs

beneath the satin curtain

of my dress.

I was happy under the bleachers,

eyes ringed with black and breath sweet with cheap wine

not quite bold enough to be slutty, yet

not quite small enough to hide.

I felt the words slip off my tongue like I was dreaming

I felt the time crawl from my head and I was lost.

When the music died and the limo crashed and the town went cold and still,

I laid my face against the pavement

and danced till morning came.

Lost Dogs

Published August 6, 2015 by April Fox

This feels empty

as if the dogs have all gone home

and left us to our own devices,

on our own to deal with the

monsters and the maniacs

hiding in the shadows

and even with the lights all on,

the television blaring comedy and news into our deconstructed brains,

there is a silence and a darkness

that the hounds have left behind.

And in the stillness, after locking all the doors

and silencing the ringers and clicking off the TV

and shuttering the windows, and pulling down the blinds

in the air we’re left to breathe

we find our solace

and remorse.

A Love Letter to Pat Robertson

Published August 1, 2015 by April Fox

The lights are on in your great glass house
but there’s nothing there to see.

Your eyes are glued to the man next door,
face pressed against his window in a gruesome caricature,
bulging against the panes, lashes wet with lust and your palms
nailed tight
to the cross
you wear like a brace
to straighten out
your prejudice

and the holes bleed out, slick sweat and muddy feet and the ones below
are drinking
from the filthy wounds
like turning vomit
into wine.

You are the keeper of everything;
you are the arbiter of every
sinful thrust

and your disciples gather close and wait
for the baptism to start.



Published July 30, 2015 by April Fox

And in this sorrow,

we create ourselves:

faces sketched in dull graphite, erased and drawn again

until the lines are blurred and the edges

of our eyes

are indistinct 

and the creases of our mouths

are parentheses, capturing 

all the things we never said. 

In this sorrow, we are written 

indelible and clear

we are paragraphs, connected

We are stories left to tell. 

Scene from a Dive Bar

Published July 20, 2015 by April Fox

The whores are dancing
in sensible shoes
to the beat of the songs that they loved
in their youth

Once upon a time, they might have been pretty.

Open-mouthed, scanning the room, looking for something they’ve lost
they are better loved than all of us
they are tired
and want to go home.


Toll Bridge

Published July 10, 2015 by April Fox

I think you might have dropped this here.

I think you might have left these things behind, stuck to the bottom of your shoe

and fallen off, or caught on a tiny piece

of lint inside your pocket, and let go

when you took a dollar out

to pay the toll.

I think you might have have felt it go,

without even knowing what it was

felt a little tug against your heart

as it blew over

the side

of the bridge.

I think you might have closed your eyes

thought you saw a memory, there

a tiny piece of history, there

long enough ago that it means

almost nothing, now

long enough ago that it meant

everything, before.

I think you might have said goodbye

paused for just a second, there

mid-sentence you trailed off

gathered thoughts and carried on

left it there for someone else

to find

and tuck away

inside a pocket

of their jeans

next to a dollar bill,

crumpled up

and waiting for the toll.

Paper Doll Nightmare

Published June 9, 2015 by April Fox

Such a lonely boy, sitting in the corner

pulling off the heads

from all your little dolls

twisting up their limbs like rubber bands,

angry that you never had

the strength you need to break them

Poking holes in fragile skin, stabbing orifices raw

They are headless spewing bile

from their bitter brains

Even bruised, decapitated


you make them sick

and in the middle of the night,

while you lie dreaming in the dark,

fat chins suffocating

choking out your breath,

they will be stitched together, artificial hearts

and iron lungs to stay alive and they will visit you

and they will crawl inside

and make you


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