top of page

m. wright


Miss crisp whisperer you        just whisked burden

out from the cracks and corners         a soap and sud


with which to let the dirt drop            from under my

nails. If I’m too soon              to ask you to    be god


at least             let me think you     a Beatrice,

and let god be the carriage     or wheel    before


we’re hauled,                          escalator-up, for dinner.

Before we eat              you mention the sun


and the progress of my cooking         body and yours.

I am less than  umami  to the universe, you say.


You open the leaflets of a bacon                    sandwich and

we recite Rich             poems because we don’t pray


but our throats             compel us to resignify the food.

I prick my dinosaur                 teeth into the crust and they


stay there when I pull my head back              a piece

of what’s coming, I say.         You wince at the fossil.                         


The Romans made concrete with          volcano ash

and seawater. In the Colosseum pillars there are       ruined


homes and                   remnants of the Mediterranean.

We both turn to the wall         instinctively. You can’t


move a kitchen wall when the            beams are load-

bearing            . You can put up         anything in a museum if you


found it           fair and square. We finish the last of the bacon        

and you put my teeth in front of the books     on the shelf


where we’ve Dewy Decimaled the fiction                 in the face

of vainness and           punctuated endings.

M. Wright is an educator and poet living with his wife, Dylan, in

Minnesota. He is the author of a boy named jane (Bottlecap Press, 2017) and his poems have recently appeared in The Penn Review, Saint Paul Almanac, Glass Poetry, UCity Review, Wildness, and Jet Fuel Review. More:

bottom of page