The radiator’s hard gills have balanced atop them a board for more counterspace, so my kitchen functions lavishly. Early beyond the window, where the sun skips leaf crests across the driveway, teenage vitality strolls to first period. I tell you this because when the morning’s coffee blooms in its grinder to an exhilirating shizz beating on my neck like a grasshopper, our purpled street bricks are lovely like they also needed permission for that. Taking two ways up the alder ridge, one when indomitable snowbanks still the usual narrow road, means I’ve heard the second most birdcalls of anywhere I’ve ever lived. I was about to try to tell you something about silence: that we must keep it a nest for those around, so a quiet morning keeps us lucid, restless. You touch my little mouth like an organ or a necklace.
Reciprocal captor, human heart.
It matters where you’re standing,
we call this perspective and go
simple at one who quarries
themself: names, faces to ask
what does it tick for? How am I
strong? Eyes lifted on sky’s blue
nothingness, ask now, in fear
of your walls, if my face is among
these. I want to die making my
bed in the morning, before coffee.
Most won’t die full and I don’t wish
to either. Take the life of a mayfly.
TAYLOR MICKS is a writer from Columbus, OH living in Urbana, IL where he is completing an MFA at the University of Illinois. His poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and have recently appeared in Vallum, Ninth Letter, DIAGRAM, The Dunes Review, and elsewhere.