Don’t Slump down Despondent and Cross-Legged onto Our Kitchen’s Speckled Linoleum

N. Ian McCarthy of Mad Bongo Maze

Mad Bongo Maze

		Consider this swelling loaf,
		browning on our oven's steel
		grate:  it expands under yeast
		power, all its continents
		skating apart, bidding brief
		adieus tectonically, like
		night trains scudding absently
		toward opposing suburbs.

	I can unfold—by the solipsistic streaks
	rappelling from your lashes—your inward crease.

		Not intoxicated by
		baking, but by the tent pins
		that stake down a widening
		morass of neural umbrae
		into the loose, damp loam of
		your conscious; your tin fingers
		yawn limply—thin, unshut jaws
		like two vagrant pitcher plants.

	You depart my platform, a dusky engine
	dissipating into muffled remoteness.

A minor experiment in syllabic structure, this poem has been kicking around my keyboard just a bit too long for comfort. It’s a made-up form consisting of eight seven-syllable lines, followed by two eleven-syllable lines, repeating. Visionary, right? It helps if you have a penchant for locomotives and/or a flair for the act of kneading dough.

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Author: Sudden Denouement

A Global Literary Collective

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