R.D. Morgan


  1. It's the waiting that kills me, the incessant freshwater
  2. hum of lemon-scented clouds, compact body
  1. knowledge, and airbags included for free. A nouveau riche
  2. child picking his nose. My chemical
  1. peel dissolving in coffee, and I choose to be
  2. naked, shallow; my greatest fears involve cliché:
  1. weekends waxed with buttercream, dun-colored
  2. dinner parties. Goddamn, I say. Goddamn.
  1. Oh, how a tangle makes me happy!
  2. Oh, how the fire engines blare through the middle of the day!
  1. I rest in lower case. I'm an off-season country
  2. cottage, a structuralist in heat.
  1. Oh, the sounds of the elderly dancing!
  2. Oh, the glint of a nailgun aimed at my right eye!
  1. Could the world exist without oranges, only
  2. mackerel slapped on the table as cast iron
  1. heats in the distance? I rest my case: those harsh
  2. remains, that unrelenting milkjug in the fridge.
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).