Mark Leflar

Mark Leflar

Mark Leflar was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in Sociology. He went to teach and write in Spain for three years. Currently he is a earning his Master’s Degree in Creative Writing at Mount Saint Mary’s University in Los Angeles. Mark is planning to return to Spain after graduation.


The Morrocan avocados nap upon one another,
I am naked
sweeping the floor in hopes to gather more than dust.

Bay of Cadiz

We sat by the sea all afternoon,
listening to the resting boats,
sharing paella of squid ink and the yellow labeled bottle of Campo Viejo,

The rumble of darkness broke across our horizon,
A salmon sturgeon moon crept from behind the clouds,
And with it oiled pink shells.

Your breath grew exhausted trying to formulate a proper english sentence.
What is left is back into silence,
And hurt is never any less.

Color Coffee

Accordion geranium txakoli mouth,
Sweeping Alboran brine dripping along your coffee color throat,
Whispering carom of bracelets,
To the cadence of your coffee hips.
Murmuring large feet,
     A tinkle of music, ephemeral sardana,
Nothing but questioning if I am able to fend for myself.

Your movement hypnotizes the moon,
crickets await your whisper,
without you,
I sleep on the terraza
in hopes of waterboarding by the dew.

Long before the night fell

We remain in our collapsed casual nude entanglement
across a kitchen floor that measures 58.18 in width.
You flirt with my hair, twirl the tips into ribbons of pasta,
          Come on, dig deep. Scratch my scalp. Check for lice.
I anchor to the small of your back.
                    Do you feel the same among our brilliant shatterings?
          We see ourselves.
The outside world along the right bank, full its touristic chaos, did not know
of broken plates or that I was permitted into your house of beauty.

Poetry in this post: © Mark Leflar
Published with the permission of Mark Leflar