by Gary Layton

Published in Issue No. 236 ~ January, 2017

All fours.

Palms in dirt,

leaning toward sanctuary.

You eternally hope

for that house.


I’d become pigment,

flesh of paint,

blood of color,

oils brushed,



give melody to your dead limbs.

Those squandered legs,

rigid, righteous and wasted.


Put a splash of me in the sky,

some in the field,

flowerless, unforgiving,

blanketing the earth

in dull sprouts of disappointment.

I’d sink into your frame

and teach you to run.


I’d sweep you up,

give toes their proper place,

tell them to frolic and


but until then

crawl, Christina,


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I'm underweight, underpaid, and overly contemplative. I play the guitar and write creatively. I like the X Files and I eat my cereal without milk. Some nights, I dream of a world where mayonnaise doesn't exist.