Your name here
When dragonflies un-
ravel all the words
I never spoke
and I come undone,
the scroll will carpet the floor of my childhood
forest. At night, letters will step out of the cellulose,
white little haunts eager to walk in the moonlight.
This is where we come from:
Ink.
This is my wish:
Speak.
Forget my words
were all about you. The blank scroll
will reroll, burst into dragonflies,
and forget its beginnings as the tongue
that doesn’t speak. Countless wings
will blink like eyelashes. There is
no word for this.
Stillborn
How deep is this ocean
can you sleep in it
How deep is the small of your back
can it fit an ocean
How far does a heartbeat swim
before it drowns
How much ocean does it take
to heal this 8 ounces of you
This much ocean I say
opening my mouth
for you to spit our second
and third sorrows into
I am sorry
This ocean is amniotic
This sleep is an animal padding through water
I am sorry
The small of your back is clay
I am sorry
I can't mold you from you
Everett Warner spends his time trying to be a wolf. His words are at or are forthcoming at Rust + Moth, Axolotl, Chicago Literati, and other places. He is the Fiction Editor for Noble/Gas Qrtly. He thinks everything should be blue, and can be found on Twitter @danielwolfer.
