A Poem by Mark Conway

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

in the underside

eternally midgety soul –

insertable — duct-
taped to my arteries (mon semblance — 
mon squeeze) little shade
who called shotgun
on our dirty ride through this too-
too flesh — better grow a home because
this one’s leaving you
(bland) immortal vegetable / left to rot
out in the sun ::
now watch me drive my spirit–mule –
old bones I beat
and hide inside — over yon hill
where I’ll scrape you off on the singing soil /
then they’ll force me down
the trail of dried-out eyes

Mark Conway’s poem is from a new manuscript with the working title Fuse. Other poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Colorado Review, Iowa Review, Ploughshares, American Poetry Review, Kenyon Review Online, the Virginia Quarterly Review, and Field.

You will find more poems here. You may contact the editor at [email protected].