As I Wander
I wake to the woods weeping as I wander its maze, coming back to
myself—I’m trying to discover what’s wrong.
We all trap ourselves sometimes. We become a forest and never
move on.
I carry a ball of yarn like a myth. I suture ax-bitten trunks. Protect
saplings. Bind. I’m holding the canopy together. Or trying to. I’m
leaving a trail that others may find.
I pass weeping pines and palms as I sleep, and wounded oaks
when I wake.
I come to the exit, but pass it. I have to. Would be too easy to give
in—I carry the trees and my duties to them.
The Wall
A woman hears rumbling in the kitchen. Like a compactor in motion. Something
crushing. She calls for her husband. No answer. A bit of soot blows along tiled floor.
Now she’s hysterical— she can’t pull her husband from the wall. The house wheezes
caustic smoke. Yet no fire. His body’s upright, immersed high. Like the kitchen wall’s
eating him. A leg dangles. His warped lips stretch like taffy. Eyes puff, bubble. Skin
smolders. She tries tugging his body back from wherever it’s going—it tears. Smoke
billows from open wounds.
Lights die—the room darkens. Her ribs rumble as the room contracts, just barely.
Saliva drips into her hair. She holds her lungs hostage, looking up. Teeth glisten
overhead. The wall screams.
I wake to the woods weeping as I wander its maze, coming back to
myself—I’m trying to discover what’s wrong.
We all trap ourselves sometimes. We become a forest and never
move on.
I carry a ball of yarn like a myth. I suture ax-bitten trunks. Protect
saplings. Bind. I’m holding the canopy together. Or trying to. I’m
leaving a trail that others may find.
I pass weeping pines and palms as I sleep, and wounded oaks
when I wake.
I come to the exit, but pass it. I have to. Would be too easy to give
in—I carry the trees and my duties to them.
The Wall
A woman hears rumbling in the kitchen. Like a compactor in motion. Something
crushing. She calls for her husband. No answer. A bit of soot blows along tiled floor.
Now she’s hysterical— she can’t pull her husband from the wall. The house wheezes
caustic smoke. Yet no fire. His body’s upright, immersed high. Like the kitchen wall’s
eating him. A leg dangles. His warped lips stretch like taffy. Eyes puff, bubble. Skin
smolders. She tries tugging his body back from wherever it’s going—it tears. Smoke
billows from open wounds.
Lights die—the room darkens. Her ribs rumble as the room contracts, just barely.
Saliva drips into her hair. She holds her lungs hostage, looking up. Teeth glisten
overhead. The wall screams.
Expecting You
I remember rain. Lots of it. I think that’s why we stayed inside.
We were baking a giant yellow sponge cake. It stretched across tables, spotted with
holes like fallen droplets. We filled them with strawberry jam.
Cooperation, precipitation, my sticky fingers—something made me sour.
I don’t remember any arguments. Or leaving. Only the rain on my neck.
No vibrating notification, but I checked my phone all the same. Maybe I was
expecting you. Instead—a friend request from somebody who used to love me. And now
even you weren’t with me. It hurts—my life had changed its mind so fast.
My hands smeared the screen as I accepted my friend’s offer. But I could still read
clearly—all dreams eventually reveal themselves as dreams.
Christopher Morgan is the Editor for Arroyo Literary Review, growing up in Michigan, Georgia, and California. His poetry and fiction has appeared in Gargoyle, Permafrost, A cappella Zoo, Bartleby Snopes, theNewerYork, DOGZPLOT, Voicemail Poems, Clade Song, Near Rhyme, and others. Sometimes he sits at his keyboard, banging on it like a child on a piano; other times, he’s in bed, not sleeping.
I remember rain. Lots of it. I think that’s why we stayed inside.
We were baking a giant yellow sponge cake. It stretched across tables, spotted with
holes like fallen droplets. We filled them with strawberry jam.
Cooperation, precipitation, my sticky fingers—something made me sour.
I don’t remember any arguments. Or leaving. Only the rain on my neck.
No vibrating notification, but I checked my phone all the same. Maybe I was
expecting you. Instead—a friend request from somebody who used to love me. And now
even you weren’t with me. It hurts—my life had changed its mind so fast.
My hands smeared the screen as I accepted my friend’s offer. But I could still read
clearly—all dreams eventually reveal themselves as dreams.
Christopher Morgan is the Editor for Arroyo Literary Review, growing up in Michigan, Georgia, and California. His poetry and fiction has appeared in Gargoyle, Permafrost, A cappella Zoo, Bartleby Snopes, theNewerYork, DOGZPLOT, Voicemail Poems, Clade Song, Near Rhyme, and others. Sometimes he sits at his keyboard, banging on it like a child on a piano; other times, he’s in bed, not sleeping.
