Poet

Spider words dipped in ink
midnight scuttling across
the bleached white plain of page.

Eat them with ink stained lips.

Pause.

Look over your shoulder again:

Two pale, hairless legs jutting
from Night’s hungry sack.

Write.

Our skins the limit.
Our skins the limit.

Laugh.

Open your little mouth
so your soul can get out.

Heartbreak

Like a fat tick
burst between two
bloody fingernails

When you finally feel
you can talk about it
there’s nothing left to say

As a child Oliver enjoyed digging holes in the ground to whisper secrets into them. His poems have appeared in Bohemian Ink. Recent writing is forthcoming in a Negative Capability Press anthology of poetry. He also writes and edits academic publications. Half of him lives in Atlanta. His ghost haunts Istanbul.