John Leonard


The Half-Life of Pheromones

Pale yellow light, orange peels
muddled like concrete,

a clean glass. You never found me.


Pieces of the windowsill were flecked
with black soil and rotting on the ground.

I fed myself stale almonds,


stripped of my quiet multitudes.

And now that you mention it,
even the floorboards were candles.


The forest falls skyward, smokes two packs
a day and rubs oak-lung on his father’s
shaving mirror. Coldly Capricious

The clouds are neon, junked through the nighttime
with the passing of rain…
steel rail omens

You are flushed and imagined,
a bottle on the mantelpiece. A shipwreck. Tonight,

I’ll blot a circle of lipstick off my shirt and cringe at the physicality.


The sun goes out and under.
The stains fly overhead.
I am fighting everything to un-feel you.

JOHN LEONARD is a writer of fiction, poetry, and essays. He received a BA in English from Indiana University South Bend where he minored in Creative writing and is currently studying to receive his Masters. His previous works have appeared in Analecta, Tributaries, and The Jawline Review.