Carbon Pressure
The thing you hate is hidden in the grass. Is groaning. Wants a boy to rub
the urge be urge to suck it first then swallow. Every inch. Is snake in a box
drum, wasp in a jar. Echo, bird feather, breakable rhythm. Art of distance
nearing. You know
no other way to feel.
Your father, a mutt
the nightjar asleep.
The silence of snow
when the sky caved
in.
the urge be urge to suck it first then swallow. Every inch. Is snake in a box
drum, wasp in a jar. Echo, bird feather, breakable rhythm. Art of distance
nearing. You know
no other way to feel.
Your father, a mutt
the nightjar asleep.
The silence of snow
when the sky caved
in.
Luke Johnson is the author of Quiver (Texas Review Press), a finalist for The Jake Adam York Prize, The Levis Award, The Vassar Miller Prize and the Brittingham. His second book A Slow Indwelling, a call and response with the poet Megan Merchant, is forthcoming from Harbor Editions Fall 2024. You can find more of his work at Kenyon Review, Prairie Schooner, Narrative Magazine, Poetry Northwest and elsewhere. Connect on Twitter at @Lukesrant or through email: writerswharfmb@gmail.com.
Beaver Magazine 