here is how the body dies:
the heart stops, its parameters
unfulfilled— for a moment or a
lifetime. once the blood goes
stagnant, the brain asphyxiates.
in its collapse, images might
flash across the theatre of the
mind. they are only illusions.
after one hour, there is no more
brain activity. then begins the
flow of junglebirds from the
chest— screaming macaws, comet
sicklebills, twirling astrapia,
waltzing parotia, kings-of-saxony—
all very dragon / little passerine—
and then the medics pluck the
feathers from your apartment and
two weeks later your estranged
nephew moves in.
I Had a Violent Dream by Hugh Neil
In which a man, a little shorter than me
Stepped past me on the sidewalk.
I didn’t like his face, so I swung
Into his gut, and he stumbled back, bent,
Then came towards me. I threw him to the
Ground and kicked at him,
His cheekbone crumpled. A thickness
Filled my mouth.
I woke up terrified at my heart,
And brain, at what it conceived, at
What a me did.
Still dark out, I swung out of bed
And crossed the room to our golden, Georgia,
Who slept curled on her dog bed.
I lay down and held her head
In my hands, and observed
Her bones, her empathetic eyebrows.
She opened her eyes and looked
Up at me, patient, my face inches from hers,
And I said, you couldn’t do that, G,
Could you? Could your jaws
Snap open right now, and lodge
Across my face, puncture my
Eyes, tear off my cheeks? You couldn’t
Do that, could you? She watched me, listening,
then closed her eyes. I buried
My face in her fur. Of course she could,
But she doesn’t.
She’s all the sweeter for it.
I fell asleep on the floor
next to her,
the sky lightening outside.
Wrestlemania, but they're kind to each other by Will Vrattos
Tonight, on Wrestlemania,
The Understander
Takes on
Dad.
Born and raised in Shrapnel, Ohio,
Before WWE, The Understander served in multiple militaries before learning the futility of
violence and committing to a life of peace.
He does one thousand pushups a day, and he holds the door for people over ten steps behind him.
He consumes raw meat, protein shakes, Chaucer, Borges, and Camus.
His signature move is listening to empathize instead of to respond.
He never speaks when he has nothing to say.
He is
The Understander.
He’s gonna get you.
His opponent?
Dad.
Dad eats losers for breakfast.
He also eats figs, ‘cause they’re a good source of fiber and aid his digestive health.
He enjoys a side of Earl Grey tea with the losers he eats for breakfast.
In his last match, Dad hit his opponent over the head with some rock-solid life advice
Followed by a rapid volley of hard, but necessary, truths.
His signature moves include
The Firm Handshake.
The Saturday-Morning-Pancake Flip,
And handing the waiter an empty plate while saying “I hated it.”
Two men enter.
Two men leave,
Albeit with slightly different perspectives on male mental health in the digital age
And what feels like a little less weight on those broad WWE shoulders.
"Because it's there" by Finn McNany
In 1924, English Mountaineer George Mallory attempted to become the first man to summit Mount Everest, the world’s tallest mountain.
he said to the reporter,
who asked why.
Why he wanted to climb Everest.
The mountain that would kill him
that killed him and
his man Sandy
and left Ruth
a knowing eyed widow.
Ruth made the music
played the piano and flute
and sang.
She sang him Sweet Primroses.
And he listened
to that song
and he loved a song
that wasn’t about him.
The song of the longing
suitor false deceiver
who, turned away,
goes down
to some lonesome valley
where no man on earth shall find him
where the pretty
little small birds
do change their voices
and every moment blows
a blusterous wind.
He listened and laughed
and looked up,
A swain unwavering.
Don’t cry for me, for I
go where music is born
he asked
of his family,
of Ruth
and of Frances Clare, Berridge, and
John
breathing nine, seven, and
four years
the morning he left them
to grow taller, alone.
He lived
for no lonesome valley
where no man would find him
but for one
lonely peak,
where all might behold him.
Where the wind
ripped through him
and the air
outran his sucking lungs.
Until he fell.
They think, maybe
he cut himself free
to fall alone.
Large scavenging birds
laughed their single laugh
and ripped out his organs.
But his back remains,
its own mountain
preserved, pure white stone.
They think
the men made it.
That they fell descending.
To see him
on top
means it is okay
for us that he suffered.
He never dreamed
of us looking up.
He saw only himself
looking down.
Passing by Edina by Alexa Strauss
Every Summer we drive to Iowa,
a drive stocked full of story
of fallen family past, Mother’s childhood,
those years all come a flurry.
Nana tells the story of Shaky Bolts.
The repair man that walked through town and clinked.
Her, among the children who are small town free,
name him Shaky Bolts, an innocent cruelty.
No Mother would name her child such a thing.
Beaded Rosaries strung through baby hands,
round round muttered breath from her children’s lambs.
Grandma Mary sits up front, her
praying passengers steady her anxious heart.
Iowa strawberries lie beneath a mossy porch,
floorboards swelling against sweet fruit.
Sticky fingers search for shortcakes, and later
catch fireflies in a field of starlit dew.
Mother talks of a talent show at sixteen.
Her skates, tights, and hair teased high—
the transformation into a County Fair Delight.
Billy Joel blasts from her brother’s boombox,
her dance routine refined both day and night.
the crease in the carpet by Isaiah Tsai
a wound from the weight of a hundred
different people.
i run my big toe through the gash.
it itches
i put more
pressure
dig my toenail into
the seams
i could put the couch back
over it,
hide the scar
simultaneously
deepening it
it’ll never truly be restored
so why cover up
something that
deeply represents
everything that
dug into it
something that
cut
all the way.
down
to its
t
h
r
e
a
d
s.