Chris McCreary

Albatross

Books
in my jaws,
I talk.

I rail
at my nightingale

in plain
song

sung wrong. My frown

aches adder
from eel, bends sinister
all sparks at will.

The night falls,
the falcon

alights,
tosses the tangled entrails

at the base of my bed.

Botched Chupacabra

I.

Corners
& quick the boards

over the doors.
A thin bit of cotton

dissolves & hope
croaks over my gums.

Torn verbs. Turpentine.
The same old starch

sewn over every orifice,
the tight smile

pulled tighter
by hidden strings. Taut,

tauter this tinkering
until fit to tear.

II.

Dripping water dropped
to rumor

& sticky hearts
stuck to the

wall.
You stew

in stagnant air
& when the hordes move

to drain your humours,
their antlers gore

as a sort of surge
& recur. &

recur. &
recur.

Disinvited

The romance of

shipwreck &

inevitable an eighth day's
fever, some

Stratego mixed
w/ bits of necromancy

& so this mess
you've left,

i.e., attachment
to one's captor, e.g.,

one pissed-off Tinkerbell,
or, c.f.,

another day of nickels,
the countless fallen

robins, et
cetera. Cannonball,

the boy calls, & then he leaps
overboard.

Ethan Frome Goes

Can you float these fleetings,
landscapes

            painted in haste.
I tried to rise. I rose

toward the light. I grew
confused. I was among the buzzing

            & the fireflies.
With screens as partitions,

you can pretend you don't hear
the screams. Please come closer

            to the brush strokes
& sense something momentous,

tasting the pollen & overtaken
by the sneeze.