The Night Guardsman by Jesse Miksic

Autumn has called this

rugged child dog out of sleep

when the sun is still

just flexing her fingers.

He has been a restless sleeper lately,

two days ago he was

chasing something in his

doggy slumber, and

we didn’t wake him, because

who would do that, or

undo it, bind his little

wildness? But yesterday

it must have been a nightmare,

because he leapt suddenly

upright, growling, terrified

in our quiet bedroom but

furious to protect us from

his transient intruders.

He is a loyal boy, fully

dedicated to his life’s work –

to the vanquishing of all

the small noises at his

great noise, to the unbroken

light at the front window.

This will be his first autumn,

the first ever in the whole world

to a doggy, and thus, I guess,

his restlessness:

big paws in the leaves,

trusted teeth on dry wood,

cotton ball head,

tail like a plume he flies,

waking suddenly into triumph.

---

Jesse Miksic is a graphic designer and writer living in the suburbs of Philadelphia. He spends his life writing poetry, ruminating over philosophy and pop culture, and having adventures with his endlessly patient wife, two awesome children, and hyperactive dog. Recent placements include Pink Plastic House, Moist Poetry, Selcouth Station Press, and Hearth & Coffin. His work and musings can be found at @miksimum on Twitter and Instagram, or www.miksimum.com

Comments

Home by Jessa Forest

Home scratches at her shingles with tree branch fingers, pulls the air conditioning unit close to her grimy aluminum siding, and keens an empty song of mourning. We found her wandering the tornado snarled wild three months ago, starved and lonely. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself, you see? We fed her shards of dining room tables, kindling for the fireplace, and cast iron bathtubs clawed feet first. She was slow to recover so we gutted her plumbing, ripped out her nerves, and rewired the electricity. She let the water in every time it rained so we put a new roof on her and let her out for regular walks around the wolf pen. Let her mingle with the vultures, I said, let her feel useful and clean up the dead but no one wanted to listen. We found rot an mold in her corners, infused her insulation with antibiotics, and quarantined her for two weeks while she belched ladderback chairs, sofa cushions, wind chimes, and broken bookcases. She still has her bad days. After feeding time

Smoking and Swearing by Ian Manson

He’s stood outside, he’s on his break. He’s unsure whether to be smoking or swearing. He decides on both. Inhale. Fuuuck! Inhale. Fuuuck! A person, a visitor, or a patient. Heading to the hospital, sees his scrubs and scowls. “ It’s not very professional for a nurse to be smoking and swearing. ” But he doesn’t care. He’s already done his good deed for the morning and by midnight he’ll have done a dozen more. Yesterday was a paltry four. Tomorrow’s shift will be five or two or maybe eight, and another night of finishing late. Inhale. Fuuuck! He breathes a cloud of smoke. Watches it swirling, ascending, a spirit en-route to heaven. The person’s saintly sanctimony means nothing to him. Because he’s on his break. And he’s smoking, and he’s swearing. --- Originally from Scotland, Ian has lived and worked in Worcestershire for the last 11 years. He can normally be found performing his poetry and prose at events on the Worcester spoken word scene

“Are You So Tired Then, Stranger?” by Ace Boggess

—Dick Allen, “B&B” Wind exhausts with its icy fists. Knives of rain wear me down, & leaves in their helicopter swirls like leaflets dropped from a plane. October depletes me, & November. They’ve too much busyness. They send me spinning, dancing, lonely with the rake, the broom. I surrender, collapsing like an old barn, debris of me piling in a chair with clear view of the television. News is on. It spends me. Talk of politics, also. I’d like to shut up the voices that fatigue. They hum like a B-flat in the pipes. They bicker & scold, condemn. They expend me like carrying groceries up a flight of stairs until I’m too drained to care which side they’re on. --- Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, including Escape Envy (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2021), I Have Lost the Art of Dreaming It So , and The Prisoners . His writing has appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, and other journals. An ex-c

Dear Reader

Search This Blog