The sun rose in his head while his feet were still asleep. Pigeons roosted then flew behind his eyes as nets full of sardines were pulled in off the coast of his toes. Mountains rose and fell with every breath. In the mornings he pulled on the trousers of the day but could not choose between his corn belt and his bible belt. Sometimes, he felt a fracking in his belly and at night he could not quiet the tinnitus of a million cars.
The Boy Who Was Divided into Time Zones
About Linda Malnack
Linda Malnack's poems have appeared in various journals, including Amherst Review, Blackbird, Northwest Review, and Willow Springs. Her chapbook, 21 Boxes, was published by dancing girl press at the end of 2016. Linda co-edits the online poetry journal Switched-on Gutenberg and is also an Assistant Editor for Crab Creek Review.
More Poetry
His pulp, his tender center, is not the pulsing mass that sits within his chest. No wonder ribs are called a “cage” –
Like pearl-headed pins that hold up the firmament, you hold my world in place. Your glow is soft like a dove’s wing and your warmth a down feather, holding back the cold callous night. You guide ships to shore and…
this is our home she says, skin and bones built up with love
we put basil on everything