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  • Bray McDonald

Working Late in the Word-Shed

Working Late in the Word-Shed

Ravenous for a particular word that would work wonders

in translation I sit in a square room of light.

The silence palpable.

I cuddle with an inspiration-sore and impotent Muse.

My beneficent consort exhausted by the recent

consummations so efficacious and draining.

It is often a vain attempt to render perceptions. An exercise

in inadequacy. The fury rising like the crackling of something electric.

Skull itching with the pyretic passion of depraved poets.

Tormented by nostalgia and the insincere influence of time.

Caveman dreams and the dirty history of roots. For now

merely desperate with my long-legged Muse ham-strung.

The word-shed silent and empty as the eye socket

of a dry skull. Odin’s blinding price of wisdom.

The membranes of the blood static in suspension.

The brain shriveled as rotted fruit. Nothing coherent

surfacing on the horizon. The sterile iniquity of a nocturnal

pen-pusher up for another dose of no good.

Afraid to die without a song someone else has heard.

—Bray McDonald


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