Author: Leah Welch

The Man at The Gym

Before the magazine article told him about beauty—
perfection as an equation he’d yet to solve—
he was special. As a boy, all of the stray dogs

About Leah Welch

Poet — Writer — Creative Entrepreneur ZO Magazine Entertainment Editor | Poetry Director

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Nine Minutes

The butterfly’s tongue— sharp and golden— roots for the sweetest flower; knows her name by taste.   If I kiss you after our time empties like a long river into the brackish delta I do not think I’ll know you. So whose name should I call when you answer your phone tomorrow when I cannot use it now to keep you?   Submissions are open for our December launch. Please visit our submissions page for guidelines. Submit your work [mailchimp-form title=”” success_text=”Thank you, your email has been added to the list.” button_text=”Subscribe!” firstname=”0″ lastname=”0″]Get the Litbreak Newsletter! We’ll send you...

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The Architect

The Architect   Oh the impermanence of the cosmic spine that collapses and leaves me wanting. I cast shadows in my bloodline.   Calliope calls and I cannot divine her answers from my haunting— Oh the impermanence of the cosmic spine.   Here hallowed, here holed in the pine. Were I dead, yet hear the chorus chanting. I cast shadows in my bloodline.   I lay the heart rot, I play my life supine. My dreams are rudderless and daunting. Oh the impermanence of the cosmic spine.   I cannot retaliate against the immeasurable incline of the unsung selves...

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