Death hides in airport bathrooms
where corporate men masturbate to lives
they’ve never lived. Please stranger
take a load off. Make yourself at home.
My heart is a subordinating conjunction
unless castaways on islands cease to exist.
Consider the petroglyphs and the water
under a beaver’s teeth from which this poem was built.
How many times have you sobbed
this calendar year—4 ½ to 11?
I can show you how to cinch a teardrop
into a half-Windsor. It’s easier than you’d think.
There’s a DIY Youtube video for everything these days.
On my iPhone Notes App, I have a laundry list of
ways I could tragically die:
scaffolding, FedEx truck, choking
on a mozzarella stick at a 24/7 diner, et cetera.
For years, I was terrified an asteroid
would career to earth, splatter us all,
but not anymore.
What would you say, sweet stranger,
if I told you that silence is the ocean
and we are all just monkeys on trees?
- Meet the Author
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Ezra Solway (he/him) lives in Philadelphia. His poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net, which sounds cool some days. He has other work in Philadelphia Stories, Identity Theory, Bending Genres, among other places. You can follow his writings on Twitter @SolwayEzra
Death hides in airport bathrooms
where corporate men masturbate to lives
they’ve never lived—-I absolutely love how you opened this piece!
A far-roaming poem, where so many lines opened up into spinning poem-galaxies of their own … Beautiful work, Ezra. Honoured to be in such great company in Issue 6.
deft use of colloquial language. lovely!