By Jason Deiss

Coffee is never the right drink for ballistic evangelism. It smothers awkward conversations, and settles poorly behind my tongue. So I realize, this silence has no weight, though its gravity pools atop your ears.

I would react; it’s just that I can’t breath. My shoulder blades have pierced my lungs, and the acrid thoughts are running down my back, mooring below my stomach like sour milk or bad fish.

I push the ring aside and hand you my answer. Stairs grumble beneath me as it unfolds and twists between your ribs. My vacant seat creaks in dusty gusts.

Fragmented, I relish the quiet remainders, where we end in fractions and rooted negatives, because their hush simply is.

Categories: Issue 5, Poetry | Leave a comment

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