by stephanie roberts


i have the same concerns as all criminals,

alibis, quick getaways, where to dump a body,

and how to beat a lie-detector.


even now, my heart is a steel pen

conquering and creating assault

etching out how awful it got

telling black and blues

better than this paradox

muttered into eight corners.





moonwalks to the door of my brain


my stomach (convulsing

like a dying swan) that never learned

to sit like a lady, in basement closets,

like secrets rust in shoe boxes

warp in hot cold attics,

as apple seeds eaten as the poetry of lies,

betrays me.




stephanie roberts was born in Central America, grew up in Brooklyn, NY, and now abides in a wee town in Québec, Canada. A 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee and Silver Needle Press Poetry Contest winner, her work has been featured in numerous periodicals and anthologies including Arcturus, Atlanta Review, Verse Daily, The Stockholm Review of Literature, L’Éphémère Review, Occulum, and FLAPPERHOUSE. Twitter shenanigans @ringtales

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