3 poems by Lillian Tzanev

Teammates Against the Buffoons

In another life, we were bear cubs
brothers that wouldn’t stop biting each other.
We were jagged leaves of the same cluster
sisters of the same branch.
In this life, we’re stuck with occasional signals
sent across miles since we’re just loosely acquainted
a pair of intellectual assholes
teammates against the buffoons.
From the moment we met
we laughed for lost time
like cracks in the concrete
unaware of the roots underneath.






I do

I have trouble with forever
that thorny vine always wrapped around my neck.
I claw against my own skin 
trying to pluck off the bristles 
but as I look around and see a new city 
with a new cuisine, a new color palette
or a new sexual partner 
those first few seconds of song
I’m hooked.
So, I gaze at my hands 
soaked in my own blood 
and I tell myself, I could get used to this.





Glory, glory

Grape vine covered trees 
in line 
on the parkway
and I honestly can’t tell 
if someone manicured 
their form.
One is just too bunny shaped 
for coincidence
I insist.
You tell me 
my brain is just yearning 
for pattern 
or art
anything really.
This tree isn’t a fox
just a wild mess 
that works.

Return to Journal

Lillian Tzanev is a writer from NYC. She has appeared in or is forthcoming in The Allegheny Review, The Broadkill Review, The Bookends Review, Feral, The Messenger, Prairie Margins, Short Vine Literary Journal, and WLN: A Journal of Writing Center Scholarship. Lillian currently teaches ESL in Bulgaria.