Tarot Cards on a Catholic School Playground


We shouldn’t be doing this –

making angel paths to open sewage holes, priest holes


laughing at

The Lovers and The Fool, debauching

near a fallen birds’ nest

amidst rain-ruined chalk suns

and the shadows of our skirts


bells ring loud as we leave The Hangman behind –

with arms outstretched, can hug an entire continent



There Must Be Something That Rhymes With Bones


I once lived in a house

embraced by ivy

with a clothesline rattling with bones.

The noises evoked a

synthetic voodoo,

a hollow wind chime conducted by

the occasional breeze.

Ribcages rang loud

if hammered by a finger bone.

Remember when organs were instruments, too?

I heard the stomach was once heralded as a bagpipe.

If all of this was true,

why couldn’t I play music

or perform a sonnet

with my body?

Since then, I always envied that clothesline

which hung outside my house.



Corn Husk Dolls


Voodoo Child –

wobbling newborn horses, the uncertain Puritan

is laid out for all to see, even the highborn chief

pays his respects

in armfuls of casino claw machines, dusk perfume

and half-savage sacrificial dolls


who genuflect from miniature feeding chairs,

bonnets, ribbons, and all –

cowherd bayonets mounted on knotted hand

all-seeing eyes of dried capers, fastened tight

and forever






Arielle Tipa is a writer based in New York whose work has been featured in Alien Mouth, Mirror Dance, thread, and FIVE:2: ONE Magazine, among others. She currently works as a writer on Long Island.