Paige Riehl is accident prone, having accidentally boiled all her whites with one black sock in Ireland, swam above a shark in the Great Barrier Reef, consumed tap water in Morocco, and backpacked around seventeen countries. You can find her poetry now or forthcoming in publications such as Avatar Review, Blood Orange Review, Nimrod International Journal of Prose and Poetry, and Word Riot, to name a few.
The local tour guide believes in leather boots with wide toes. Sturdy soles. Protein for breakfast.
The young sailor said he would give me a modicum of love if I let him use my body as a harbor.
The ticket seller would prefer to meet the guests outside, order them shortest to tallest, take the most boisterous by the hand.
The skull-like villa lost / in a garden of dreams, / so seem the isle’s cimitero: ...
So here is the brief life / of men: what follows / went before of / that we know / nothing
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