Product 25
Poetry and Prose from the Center for Writers
Home | About Us | Staff | Center for Writers | English Department | Southern Miss
Goose Truncated


The Problem

Why doesn't the horse sleep
Why does it stand there
Staring into the woods
So early in the morning to just stand there
Standing and staring at nothing in the trees
And the wind is whirring past the window
I am looking out
And she stands there alone
The wind is whirring
The barn light casts shadows on an old fixation
And she stands there
3:43 and she stands there in the whirring wind
And I hide myself in the dark warm room watching
There are raindrops out there, easy drops with her
3:44 and she stands there,
             And her head turns. She looks towards me.


Chirp she said
And showed me the baby inside
Not a human child but one with wings
And spindles like newborn feathers in her mouth
She pulled her cheek aside
And a little head and little eyes and a little beak poked out
In love with the moist warmth
She loved that little blackbird
Some child, I said
Chirp, she said, pipe
                                          And red wings

The Brief Tale of a Civilization

My bugs are alive
They are bigger than the rest,
Making larva daily dying by night
Numbers mating decreasing rising growing lightly,
I feed them dog nectar, raw honeydew,
I watch them grow tall,
Some are slow but they catch on quickly.

My bugs eat the rest,
Overbear divide and conquer
Building canals and bridges and temples
And the oldest insect takes the souls from the many young
Tears away their hearts and makes a meal of the salary

Under the looking glass I see

The enemy approaching
The sacrificing stops,
Hunger ensues
Dying begins, real death not fake ones
The dog nectar dries up
The honeydew floats away with the boney poor
I hear the arrows flapping
Bridges fall
Canals are flooding, temples floating away with their sad inhabitants.

My bugs are dead.

Garrett Ashley is an undergraduate at The University of Southern Mississippi. His stories have appeared in Neon Literary Magazine, Brain Harvest, Caper Literary Journal, and Pure Francis, among others. Gertrude Stein calms him down. And he's more interested in the smell of flowers than what they're made of.