R.D. Morgan


  1. Yes, I went there, and I found it dirty: tobacco
  2. flecks in an old purse lining, a construction worker's
  3. steering wheel after five. Yes, I bred an animal,
  4. vigorous and beautiful, a stumplegged horse
  5. sporting aubergine ribbons. Yes, I was poker night,
  6. drawn and quartered. There was no change;
  1. the correspondence between fucking and beauty remained
  2. stale, unimagined: pastel tulips stenciled on a bathroom
  3. baseboard. I was a long letter, yes, that longed to be
  4. opened, hearts scratched in opposing margins
  5. as the hurricane's bright eye loomed unblinking.
  6. Yes, the wind whipped the planters from the back deck,
  1. as the cock and I shattered. Yes, the fucking shifted
  2. toward brute interior: a cologne spill in the corner,
  3. an infected scar from a hot iron. Yes, the scent
  4. of our hands spelled dis-ease. Yes, that cock —
  5. that thin, promiscuous cock! — desired desire,
  6. experience, refined fucking. Yes, it hungered
  1. for carefully shifting dusklight, a glass butterfly's wings.
  2. Yes, that cock was slender, easily broken: a stiletto
  3. dodging sewer grates scattered about,
  4. the rainsogged aftermath of strip poker.
  5. I might have saved us, yes, had my fist not turned
  6. dead, useless, a lighthouse eye after the storm.
  1. Yes. In less than an hour, we drowned.
R.D. Morgan lives in the Deep South, and she analyzes websites and markets books online for a living. She earned her MFA in Poetry nearly ten years ago (in 2003).