SR Stewart is an MFA student in poetry. Her poetic focus stems from the works of Berryman, Plath, and Bukowski. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest farming her garden and working as the associate acquisitions editor for Unsolicited Press.
Dad chucks trash onto an already full heap.
I sit on the roof of the ’82 Silverado and watch.
The skin of my legs below the edges of my shorts
burn on the truck roof as the valley sun tries
to turn me into a puddle. But I’m ok where I am
because I have a view of the whole dump.
I can see other men with their own trucks
throwing their garbage onto huge piles, smelly
and swarming with flies. I wait patiently
for Dad to finish, and the ride home when I’ll
roll down the window and swat at the baskets
of the metal cup holders until they swing.
Glorianne Outlaw revived her Bachelor’s in English from Fresno State. She is currently there getting her MFA in Poetry. She has lived in Fresno her whole life. This will be her first publication.
Euphony is releasing its spring issue on Monday, 5/19! Check back here to find an electronic copy, and for those of you in the Chicago area, we’ll be hosting a launch party to celebrate the arrival of our 28th issue. More details can be found here on Facebook. We look forward to seeing you there!
You were your own deep exterior; a shallop
That took one rower;
A sink whose slush sounded like a rill;
Ballast so cubed in blue-black water
Sometimes you sensed your own depth.
You were the sleepy steamed broccoli; the travel
Serendipity; the room whose light
Stayed up past 3 A.M.;
The goldfish that prayed for rain.
You were the island pew filled with
So many trogons and water,
The tropical growth had to vacate its space;
You were the last to shut your door and let self keep
Fuchsia – catnip – winter jeans:
Thornton Dial & Flesh-Eating Beetles
Two bobcats, a deer, a cow’s head,
a Labrador retriever, all in a heavy-duty
lawn & leaf bag. When the bones’ve
been cleaned by beetles, weight
and gravity disappear. If pheromones
spread to marrow, then ladybugs
will come here this winter to sleep
and die, leaving trails of yellow blood
like The Beginning of Life or footprints
on a museum map. How did slit paint cans
laced with t-shirt threads land here?
Were I to rise from dirt and water
at the canyon’s center, I would migrate
too. Emergence and a rubber glove.
We are all of each other, cut from diamonds
like continents. The sky is America
the Beautiful in an aluminum pie pan.
Help me punch the holes. Cut
the lights and hold the lamp—
together we’ll see Stars
of Everything. Slick me against water
like a boat’s deck, and thank you
for the baby breathing among the bones.
Carrie Meadows lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee where she teaches professional and creative writing. Her poetry and fiction pieces have appeared in North American Review, Prairie Schooner, Mid-American Review, and other publications. Find out more at carriemeadows.weebly.com.