Chris McCann πŸ”ˆ


Inside the wall there is
another wall garlanded
with honeysuckle
and clematis.

You can smell it,
but all you see
is concrete where someone
has spraypainted the word
FLOWERS above a scatter
of broken glass.

Last night you began to think
of your body as a vitrine
shrouded by heavy curtains.
You weren’t sure you could
move, but there you were –
walking around like you
owned the place while
rearranging an exhibition
no one saw.

When you flip the switch,
nothing happens, or it happens
so far away you can’t
see it. Someone who says
she’s an electrician pats
your shoulder – It’s
like this, she says, then
flips the switch back.

You have always been afraid
and now you are buried
alive and it feels
right. You can almost
relax into the darkness
because you’ve been here before,
you know how it ends.

Someone has built a house
out of the garbage you left
out. It is your house
and you see for the first
time how beautiful it is,
the colors, how they glow.

The car that hits you
doesn’t stop, but you don’t
feel bad. It is like a light
has been flickering
but now burns clean.

Forget what you said
in your dream – no
one would believe
you meant it, anyway.

After all these days,
you watch the snow collect
in a pothole and freeze.

There is a metal box
in a forest of wire leaves.

You never pretended
to mean anything.

Author Reading

About the Author

Chris McCann’s work has been published or is forthcoming in Moss, Arc Poetry Magazine, Kissing Dynamite, Salt Hill Journal, Barren Magazine, Noctua Review, The Shore, and the Bodies anthology by Beaver Magazine. He lives on Bainbridge Island in Washington State.