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      March 7, 2020SingularityDaniel Stewart

      Fired from God’s .45 she tore a hole
      in me black as a crow’s wing.
      She found the universe dull as a sitcom, the laughtrack
      louder with the voices of the dead than October
      rain’s gallop across the roof, and so
      collapsed. She languished, lilac, leopard;
      I prayed to prowl with her, prey with her, lick
      blood and meat with her, but God sucked
      my tongue into His mouth and
      bit. Rain, you are song when I long
      for arms; the birds tuck heads
      under wing, wings are weapons, like the wind
      in the leaves; wings are choices, like the sea
      throwing up stars on the sand. She tore
      a hole in me the size of God
      so heavy with gravity not even light
      escapes me.

      from #28 - Winter 2007

      Daniel Stewart

      “In eighth grade Reading my class was assigned a poem to write. When my teacher, Mr. Stover, returned the poem, he took me aside and told me he loved it and that I was a talented writer. It was the first time he’d addressed me as an individual, and after, always acknowledged me. I’ve been writing ever since, trying to be noticed by the Mr. Stover’s of the world.”

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