Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue Two

Jessica Barrog


Notice the sidewalk. And the watery eye, blood shot apprehension cracking the cement. That Giant, foul pig in slippers, writes routine hieroglyphics, punching out life, he's Gone in a bug’s winking. It is an unquestionably boiling hold today, tricking all without thinking. Kids in mowed grass, he brushes their bone and skin with calloused fingers, proof of desire. Fireflies led me to an opened door, brown, stoned bodies in a musky bed. Their throats ungreased and already he is out. Later, they explain the unlocked lie hoarse with humiliation, like creaking windows in their mouths.