« Genevieve Jencson | Contents | Kayla Day »

Meghan McCarthy




Pink sky is quietly taking the sun behind the mountain.

The hue deepens us. Cursory cars whisper motors past

Another. [Who is driving who?] It’s not our fault

The sun was in our eyes. The car door is left

Open in the driveway. The groceries are bagged

On the floor in the kitchen. The sink drips, begs

To run. Water builds behind the valve. The master bed

Room door is shut. Corners sealed. We wait

A lifetime for this. There’s nothing to say. There’s nothing—

Even the weeds have browned, stopped pushing life

Through cement. He built this with his fists, this house,

That swells in his mouth, in her chest. A pigeon,

Telephone wired, sits on her own stomach, rests

Her beak on her own breast. He cleaves chicken on a cutting

Board. There’s no way to slip a plate under the door.

We keep coming back for seconds as the first plate

Decays. An owl has been circling, waiting for dark. We see

her by sound, the way she takes shape on the telephone

post. What doesn’t have a spirit lives on. A manufacture

where love used to be. Or didn’t.

Nobody can remember.







I look into windows and see myself.

Screens propped on keys, unlock the world in every

neatly folded corner.

The oven is meant to tell the time.


Here, we carve rock with fingernails, paint broad strokes of ourselves

wear skinned billboards, bath-

room walls. I went to the gym today. #beastinit

Get smashed and dial your ex girl

friend. Nobody needs your finger’s throat clearing.

Patience is a fossil. 


Take a plain

ride. Swift, fast pass,

we run so fast just to stay where we are. 


There is pollen

collecting into a cloud against tarpaulin.

I watch it ride wind. Behind car window

never see dust suspend.

Crystals collect on a flower

her root dead [and dead it is]. All

separate shelled all

virtually blend.


I heard

the bang in the beginning. This community wrings puddle.

I sweat flower dandruff, mud heels. I was meant

to evolve, coat metal, make these pavements adapt to speed

melt within webs instead.


In the end we are water, break a piece of liquid in half.

A small whimper of a species letting morning mow steal birdsong

« Genevieve Jencson | Contents | Kayla Day »