written by Michał Nowak
I keep thinking every spoon
and mouth in mine are good
ways to adapt to this time zone,
my friends already through
the night. A scar travels the soft
belly of the dog, the litter plucked
from her ribs, leaving the fluttering
wake of heartbeats. Tonight’s neon
glosses her pelt on Division; I’m peering in
panes for a gentle mouth to place a prayer,
legs to be reborn between. The dog picks her healing
wounds, scarring tangible memories, leads me
new avenues home. The moment
streetlights go out, does the crowning
sun grant the moth daytime wings?
Michał Nowak was born in San Francisco and studied creative writing at the University of San Francisco. His writing has been featured in Forth Magazine, Broke-Ass Stuart, Timber Journal, The Clackamas Literary Review, and the forthcoming Portland Review. He currently lives in Portland, where he is a contributing editor and designer of bilingual literary magazine, Frontera, based in Madrid and Portland.
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