Monday, November 7, 2016

Ego

Ego

Snail warm in its shell
snug on some rock

brandishing a riding crop
and chanting

Where you live will make your
work beautiful
You need a city city city
What you need is to hurry

I’m not saying to kill the poor thing
but maybe relocate it
Under that bush over there will do

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Leash

"The Thing," by Samuel Bischoff

Leash

Here is how I become the beginning of my son’s story
He gets heavier and every day my body is a little less
my own My belly twitches rabbit-like and I think of
the 3D ultrasound where the nurse pointed out his open
eyelids Whatever he sees in that darkness I hope it comforts
him Because we are shaped into humans alone
in a friendly room the self gathers strength One day
he will tell a person that he loves all about his parents
Oh, you would think that coffee and tea were sacred
for how much they dote over it He laughs at us
and how we are What I do now is food chain fodder
for the future This boy will teach me how to loosen
my leash to the self I have always walked in

Friday, September 30, 2016

The baby is a living bedside photo

The baby is a living bedside photo

    in his video monitor, in his crib. She wakes to watch his back raise and lower.

Thursday, September 15, 2016

Open Concept

"Front Windows...," by Marine Nyiri and Audrey Anastasy

Open Concept

The dream of every American homeowner
To see across your home in one unbroken
expanse Shore to horizon The home as ocean
As perfect contained realm without fracture
or interruption Here is you cooking
even if you never cook Here is you washing greens
And there are your children playing on the floor
with a single red toy A wooden truck
Nothing is scattered around them No envelopes
on the countertops to tie your bodies to an address
This home is holy Between all of you
lustrous floors gray walls quartz countertop
subway tile backsplash without one fleck of mold
Your kitchen is a train station Is a train to carry you
toward what you see Toward what you almost see
If you just make this place gleam a touch more
maybe you can be the first humans allowed to not die

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Sylvia Hotel

Sylvia Hotel

The ivy clad hotel
reddens with the coming cold

There is nothing that will not be changed
once it is touched

Even architecture
Even a hotel crouching on the beach's long hem
as it collects itself from sand into neighborhood

Even by air
as it brings to us what has not happened yet


The Storialist. All rights reserved. © Maira Gall.