Where Things Belong

by Michael Beard

Martin Turgoose

A loose door in the center of an empty room, the heat signature  of a blue jay, unadorned calls. A handful of flowers before it  becomes a handful of flowers — give it to you. Evening sky  kneels into night and the dry wind rolls out the city, sheeted.  You are building up quite an appetite, so much so you can hear  soft music playing in the sky. The lizard remains lizardesque.  One week ago when the Tennessee River still knew your name,  you were. Being is the beginning, little tadpoles. Near August;  the fireflies will bury themselves, and the seasons will always  cry. A mind’s frenzied cobweb. Requests cling to your skin and  you forget the ones that don’t get angry. There is no point in  trying until there is, sweetly. The forethoughts of rain, of glass.  Learning yourself is the first step into change and there is only  one large flat slippery stone in this stream.

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Michael Beard (he/him) holds an MFA in Poetry from Bowling Green State University. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Salamander, BOOTH Journal, Puerto Del Sol, and other places. He currently lives in Tennessee and teaches Dual Enrollment English at local high schools.