By Ryan M.

Like a peach- pit or hand- grenade,

something that only works when it’s destroyed,

will you transmit for your time

satellite- like, descend and grow gold,

then flare and be gone? You on an old

comic- book cover, cinder like

a cigar end streaking, through a two-

dusted sky while I and my first- mate

watch, in our unlikely jumpsuits.


Ryan M. graduated from the writing program at UC Santa Barbara in 2006, and has published short stories in print and online journals including 3am, Spectrum, Mused, The Dirty Napkin, and Forge. He is currently working on a novel (or maybe reading literary blogs while thinking something like, ā€œIā€™m about to start editing this chapter . . . oh look a cat!ā€) and probably spending too much time at coffee shops. He can be reached via email at words.words77@gmail.com.

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