no whale in sight

In the Orchards Outside El Escorial

By Ryan Scott Nance

1.
I told my friend about Philip,
his devotion, his macabre design
for this mausoleum shaped like
San Lorenzo’s grille.
2.
My friend told me about Philip’s
obsession for apple orchards,
he admired the witches and
rain of the Galicians as much as he
abjured their lack of will.
3.
For us, it was the trees, their
bent trunks, the muscular necks
of horses browned and polished
in an ancient tar pool.
4.
We were two young writers and
drank each other under.  It was a small
principle we developed: release
and coil; hold & rescind.
5.
On the road out of the forest,
loss was such an incidental.
My friend called me over:
three ants are carrying a dying
bee above their heads like
a gittering headdress he said
stooping over a dirt pile.
6.
Those gardens over grew and
took hold on the land.  I could
scour those orchards for bone tips
or the white rip of apple flowers.
7.
And the furniture, of that stone
empire of fanatics & goldlust, rests
like severed fingertips all throughout
the deft galleries & chambers.In the Orchards Outside El Escorial

By Ryan Scott Nance

1.
I told my friend about Philip,
his devotion, his macabre design
for this mausoleum shaped like
San Lorenzo’s grille.
2.
My friend told me about Philip’s
obsession for apple orchards,
he admired the witches and
rain of the Galicians as much as he
abjured their lack of will.
3.
For us, it was the trees, their
bent trunks, the muscular necks
of horses browned and polished
in an ancient tar pool.
4.
We were two young writers and
drank each other under.  It was a small
principle we developed: release
and coil; hold & rescind.
5.
On the road out of the forest,
loss was such an incidental.
My friend called me over:
three ants are carrying a dying
bee above their heads like
a gittering headdress he said
stooping over a dirt pile.
6.
Those gardens over grew and
took hold on the land.  I could
scour those orchards for bone tips
or the white rip of apple flowers.
7.
And the furniture, of that stone
empire of fanatics & goldlust, rests
like severed fingertips all throughout
the deft galleries & chambers.

In the Orchards Outside El Escorial

By Ryan Scott Nance

1.
I told my friend about Philip,
his devotion, his macabre design
for this mausoleum shaped like
San Lorenzo’s grille.

2.
My friend told me about Philip’s
obsession for apple orchards,
he admired the witches and
rain of the Galicians as much as he
abjured their lack of will.

3.
For us, it was the trees, their
bent trunks, the muscular necks
of horses browned and polished
in an ancient tar pool.

4.
We were two young writers and
drank each other under. It was a small
principle we developed: release
and coil; hold & rescind.

5.
On the road out of the forest,
loss was such an incidental.
My friend called me over:
three ants are carrying a dying
bee above their heads like
a gittering headdress he said
stooping over a dirt pile.

6.
Those gardens over grew and
took hold on the land. I could
scour those orchards for bone tips
or the white rip of apple flowers.

7.
And the furniture, of that stone
empire of fanatics & goldlust, rests
like severed fingertips all throughout
the deft galleries & chambers.


Photoshop Bestiary

It isn’t for us to say the line of sacred and ordinary. These two creatures breathe through each others’ phantom lungs. Each aspired to something more. Each reached for a new form. Each writes his own bio but against what is supposed to be true. 

My terribleness replaced in parts. My head. My legs. All the things I can hold against myself are removed. Free from reproach. View Larger

Photoshop Bestiary

It isn’t for us to say the line of sacred and ordinary. These two creatures breathe through each others’ phantom lungs. Each aspired to something more. Each reached for a new form. Each writes his own bio but against what is supposed to be true.

My terribleness replaced in parts. My head. My legs. All the things I can hold against myself are removed. Free from reproach.


Photoshop Bestiary

It isn’t for us to say the line of sacred and ordinary. The features of these two creatures breathe through each others’ phantom lungs. Each aspired to something more. Each reached for a new form. Each writes his own bio but against what is supposed to be true. 

My terribleness replaced in parts. My head. My legs. All the things I can hold against myself are removed. Free from reproach. View Larger

Photoshop Bestiary

It isn’t for us to say the line of sacred and ordinary. The features of these two creatures breathe through each others’ phantom lungs. Each aspired to something more. Each reached for a new form. Each writes his own bio but against what is supposed to be true.

My terribleness replaced in parts. My head. My legs. All the things I can hold against myself are removed. Free from reproach.


POTD - Red Ghazal BY AIMEE NEZHUKUMATATHIL


Red Ghazal

BY Aimee Nezhukumatahil 

I’ve noticed after a few sips of tea, the tip of her tongue, thin and red
with heat, quickens when she describes her cuts and bruises—deep violets and red.

The little girl I baby-sit, hair orange and wild, sits splayed and upside down
on a couch, insists her giant book of dinosaurs is the only one she’ll ever read.

The night before I left him, I could not sleep, my eyes fixed on the freckles
of his shoulder, the glow of the clock, my chest heavy with dread.

Scientists say they’ll force a rabbit to a bird, a jellyfish with a snake, even
though the pairs clearly do not mix. Some things are not meant to be bred.

I almost forgot the weight of a man sitting beside me in bed sheets crumpled
around our waists, both of us with magazines, laughing at the thing he just read.

He was so charming—pointed out planets, ghost galaxies, an ellipsis
of ants on the wall. And when he kissed me goodnight, my neck reddened.

I’m terrible at cards. Friends huddle in for Euchre, Hearts—beg me to play
with them. When it’s obvious I can clearly win with a black card, I select a red.

I throw away my half-finished letters to him in my tiny pink wastebasket, but
my aim is no good. The floor is scattered with fire hazards, declarations unread.


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Books by Aimee Nezhukumatahil