Charlie Harmon


I make my bed, tug the cover sheet
               enough to upset my expanding
collection of bronze age spearheads.
               For once in my life, I am happy

to have carpet and realize
               this lack of clatter is a moment
of magic when I least expected it.
               Like when a tomboyish girl

stares at me for a second too long
               and something stirs in her.
Or when the Internet decides
               to show me a chicken wearing

an upturned nasturtium as a hat.
               When my cat assumes the shrimp
position, obscures the peony print on my duvet
               with his plump, grey body.

Down the street, a cactus grows
               more phallic by the minute.
Its flower blooms once a year
               in the cold streetlight of 1 AM.

Across the ocean, a tourist will stumble upon
               that old pew—the one I cherished, all
carved up with Medieval bats and wolfmen.
               Mutated daisies melt like Dali’s fascist clocks,

blur like a deck of cards mid-shuffle, become
               an imitation of the Vitruvian man on acid, &
sprout right in your very own backyard. Well, I’ll be

Anna Harmon is a poet, gamer, Furby enthusiast, and former indie bookseller turned library sciences student based in the Bay Area. She has an MFA in poetry from Saint Mary’s College of California and is now working on her MLIS from San Jose State University. Her work is a potpourri of bisexual antics, ghosts, sticky hands, and anti-capitalist musings. Her Twitter and Instagram are @PunishedFurby. 

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