After three days of rain, I smell
micro-organisms brewing and I’ve
only kissed a family member
seven times since sunrise. It would be
ok, but a song about a man’s last
words, in a gas chamber, asking
Joe Louis to save him – it’s an angel’s
trumpet. But what if those clouds
closed the eyes of brothers, fathers,
sons, and lovers forever? What if
executioners, in their beds, floated
away like spores? What if my lungs
fill up, first with songs and then
drowning weights? Nothing to do
but watch the new turkey tails
growing on last year’s fallen trees,
breathing deep, whatever happens next.
Ryan McCarty is a teacher and writer, living in Ypsilanti, MI. He thinks about plants so much that he forgets to ever mow the lawn, and takes it so easy that he sometimes forgets to get tired at night. Somehow, he manages to sleep late on Sundays anyway. Recent work has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Coal City Review, and Abandoned Mine. Visit him on Twitter/X @RyanCMcCarty1 and see what else he's writing on Substack.
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