R.D. Morgan


  1. The train in the distance was a book I never
  2. finished. I stopped at a gas station, and I was
  3. gushing. All I had: a suitcase of lowcountry
  1. brochures, an assorted inventory
  2. of rods and reels, and a banana peel
  3. from the week before, the smell so sweet
  1. it almost killed me. You said: Absurd!
  2. No rain falls like that! No one smells her
  3. garbage in that manner! But I didn't pretend
  1. that the ferry floated every bit of the time.
  2. I referred you to the quilt, as it told the whole
  3. story: a roomful of milk jugs, waist high;
  1. a door on the screened-in porch, two
  2. latches. Muted colors and a dust filter.
  3. I was the teenage graffiti on the concrete
  1. pilings. I was the rock hurled at the alligator
  2. twelve feet below. You said: Absurd!
  3. The memory card was full! There is no way
  1. you saved a picture! Yet my point remained
  2. sticky: a watermelon seed spat from a clock,
  3. sweat on a gym teacher's clipboard.
  1. I fought against the whistle, rejected the generic,
  2. for the motel seemed appealing from the outside.
  3. Besides: I needed a good cover for the night.
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).