by Scott Neuffer

November 9, 2022
2:32 a.m.
Love, they’ve taken over the school board.
I wander our Nevada home and poke the rubbery pizza
in the fridge the same way I poke the ash-gray sore
on the inside of my jaw. My doctor was right
about politics.
7:37 a.m.
Love, a magpie dipped through the morning light
without a sound. I want to follow it to a new world
where the days are long forever. Tell our children
everything will be okay.

January 2, 2023
5:40 a.m.
Love, did you hear the icicles cracking last night
like old teeth? We are in the maw of winter.
As I guided you in your car out of the garage,
I thought you’d murder me, finally.
Justice is a red-hot engine.
6:47 a.m.
Love, how can we demand anything
in this feeble daylight?
The preachers have gone to the roofs with rifles in hand.
I am here, ground floor, a bag of flesh.

February 4, 2023
4:50 a.m.
Love, it snowed again. I don’t believe in God,
but I worry God is trying to kill us –
a touch of anxiety in the way I sext.
6:19 a.m.
Love, I like the picture you sent me.
What I mean is behind the image is a flickering
dark heart. I’ve seen this heat before,
at the root of the mind. It sputters like a kiss.
As long as I last I give myself to it.
The snow will melt in long glittering drips.
What I’m trying to say is I miss you.

Scott Neuffer is a writer who lives in Nevada with his family. He’s also the founding editor of the literary journal trampset.