by Scott Neuffer
November 9, 2022
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
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
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.
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
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.
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.