Content

Issue 14
-little bird putting an apple in its own throat-

little bandage, i miss you and your/yer/yr/
youre sticky tacky tickling.
the sides of her calves, your rope,
it is a rough one against my
ankles.       up her knees, aganst and against
leaving little splinters, slivers, slices,
giving me a home and a humble hum – coughing
calling and hanging up, culling the heads
off the younger flowers. can i have you come
sit with me on the baked oak of the
late-september front porch
and feel your ankles burn in the
residence of the sun?
can we call,
come over and
hang up and have a humble hum? i want to be
partially drunk and lying on the floor of
your sisters room as she sits
on the old oak dining-chair and plays
her cello. your dad barking off behind us,
the sun setting behind the windows, screened by branches and shadows
of the maple out in your parents front yard. I am here and i
am hearing and i am feeling the weight of
no one doing nothing.