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Thursday, November 14, 2019

Night's Approach in Willow Gulch

By Jem Morgenstern

            Under Broken Bow Arch, there’s a creek that falls into a muddy pond. A muddy pond with crawdaddies paddling their way across the floor, pushing their ancient bodies under rocks to hide from my eyes peering down at them. I could crush them like the 13 Boy Scouts who were crushed by a rolling truck 20 miles and 55 years back at Carcass Wash, but I am much kinder than the God they prayed to. I drop a couple spinach leaves into their water – just enough for me to feel like I might be feeding them but not enough for me to feel like I’m polluting. I don’t know if they eat spinach, but I like feeling like I might be making their lives easier for one moment.
            Aside from the crawfish and the ghosts of western tragedies, there are only two others in the gulch with me. Right now, they’re back at our camp that’s nestled in the dunes of an alcove directly across from the arch. Their feet rest in the cold red sand while they share a portion of the one bottle of liquor we managed to fit in our packs. The echoes of their conversation breaks the perfect silence, but I don’t mind the noise because I like listening to them talk.
            I hike back up the dunes to join them and share their dry spit and booze from that same bottle of liquor. The night slowly drips into the sky as the burning dusk falls below the desert walls of the gulch. The black birds swimming in the darkening sky look like they’re knit from their own shadows.  We talk about those birds and the stars that speck their shadow figures, because the moonlit sky is all we can see in the blackness that reigns over desert floors at night.

Monday, November 11, 2019

Children Passing Time

By Jem Morgenstern

Pebbles on the windows
Her eyes catch children
who bedevil haggard widows

A voice like sour grass
pointed, green
wincing bitterness

A face like cottage cheese
spotted by rot
slipping off bones with ease

The hag watches closer
now sat on the porch
in light, even grosser

We stare
at her ragged hair
cracked wooden chair

We wait
for the day
she goes away

Sunday, November 10, 2019

Green River Autumn

By Jem Morgenstern


Roaches settle under milkweed patterned floors
Summer sets on churning bodies, wilting  
  daisies nestle on garden stones
Wooden homes along dirt roads, stretching 
  only from the one-eyed man's home 
  to the farthest point his eye spies

Quiet folk keen on speaking with pointed eyes
   and locking their doors before the gloam
To the well, they do not send their children fetching
   or else the beast will chew their bones
Passerbys' screams keep mother from her quilting
   and the locks stay on the doors