"Terita Heath-Wlaz," I thought, must be a pseudonym! Her poems, unsolicited in my inbox, so daring and so spicy! & an empty google return on her name! Yet she is indeed she, no persona, a San Diego barista who doesn’t like coffee, who volunteers at an animal shelter, and who was somehow unpublished before Coconut Nine. Her poems are nimble and delicious, whipped cream & cherry on top, like this one, solicited the second time around for Coconut Twelve. Underneath the tasty surface you’ll find the serifs are serrated and the o’s and x’s are yoked & squeeze & drink their fill. Several other journals besides Coconut have also tasted of Terita’s work —— Court Green, Cream City Review, Juked, Sonora Review. She writes about poetry, her 63 houseplants, supermarkets, & food right here: vegetablemine.blogspot.com.
-- Bruce Covey
The Last Fetish
is at once sexually interesting to those with an appetite for processed trees.
In the beginning, the pulp cannot get more raw.
In the end, the binding is tight as lingerie.
I reject a eulogy at this time.
I have left it in my other pants!
I entertain fantasies of owning many, many
bookshelves, that squeeze my small body like a unified muscle.
This encyclopedia, as heavy as a breast, is mine.
I pore over it, lamenting vanilla's ill repute.
Whose orchid flowers have smooth membraned petals.
Whose rare and starchy pods are brown as mesopotamian soil.
Spare me the gluteal welts, the rug burns from fuzzy cuffs.
Hand me a huge, huge book.
I will weather the perils, the paper cuts, asphyxiation.
And coins falling from the pages into my lap.
What I get for combining bank and bookshelf.
-– Terita Heath-Wlaz