*Not your average publishing company


I sift the dumpster for a carpet under
the bloodmoon because my floor splinters
like Pangea and birds sing in the walls while
I shower. March gales shouldered a pane out
of the attic window, so I listen to it writhe
upstairs, a substitute weathervane. At 2:15
each night a scream slides up the riverbank,
a plaintive lament mutating, lifting to a shriek.
I think it’s a child.
If it stopped, I’d miss it: it’s my whippoorwill,
primordial, singing that someone is lonelier than
me. I chalkmark the walls where the sunlight
stretches each hour, but this sundial alters.
The last girl I kissed tasted of morphine: tracing
tongue fractals on her numb gums, praying for
Sunday to come, but it’s always Tuesday here
and the tomato soup is boiling over.

Brendan Rowland lives in Westford, Massachusetts, several lots down from Edgar Allan Poe’s brief residence. He drives a Honda Odyssey. While writing, he sports black denim, cream-colored cat hair, and Sennheiser headphones blasting rock ‘n’ roll. He will begin a master’s in modern literature at the University of Glasgow in Fall, 2023.

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