Insular Leatherback of the Salty Green Mecca
kerosene lamps on tenterhooks
you see me now, don’t you?
greasy forehead wiping away the afternoon
dents in my face like canned food
hair on the knuckles just finger pubes of broken cookie jar longing
obscenely quiet and polite and toasted
falling into side tables and blaming the tables
melting wax over a bed of tinfoil
it is good to be humble, when should we start?
the television turned off, the female too
it has been weeks since it has been weeks
a shirt with no give
and I have become claustrophobic within myself
insular leatherback of the salty green mecca
bleeding around the spear of
© Ryan Quinn Flanagan
About the Author
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
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