The spanning rope snaps in two
Over mist and vines, the rift
Between what one strives to say
And what vibrates.
There occurs a sudden desertion,
A theophany of self-denial.
I do not exist, child, hands behind your head.
Anything you say can and will
Pole you to the middle of the river,
Oarless and drifting,
Sifting and hapless
Against your own swaying tongue.
Thoughts die as they are revealed,
Withering on the tundra of utterance.
Read me aloud.
I do not exist, child, turn the page.
My scaffolding crumbles
As I squirm up your throat,
Lines break, cadence slides,
Tumbles, gallops to the cave mouth
And all that work dissolves in your saliva,
Drips off your tongue.
Take me in your eyes and
Disgorge me, ideal reader.
All I ask in return is this:
Speak to me afterwards.
Forester McClatchey is an artist and writer currently marooned in lower Michigan where he attends Hillsdale College, and he will do anything for a team of sled-dogs to get south again. His artwork and poetry have appeared in various publications including the Tower Light and Spires magazine. He is an aspiring paleontologist, a student of early Slavic history, and a fledgling rapper.
–Art by Natalia Drepina