How able am I to sail across this sea?
My boat leaks. The sun melts the deck.
Wind won't show to blow me forward.
Water won't slide me to the island
no matter how many TVs, blenders,
and stereos I throw into its maw.
When I get there I’ll burn my clothes.
I'll dance around without a 3-piece suit.
If there’s an office I'll shut its doors.
No need for work when pineapples
dive-bomb my mouth. No microwaves
when I can cook my food on a rock.
If only this ship would take off!
I wouldn't have to look at this reflection
of the grave I've been digging. Yellow
folders as my bones. A desk as my skull.
Donald Illich’s work has appeared in literary journals such as The Iowa Review, LIT, Nimrod, Passages North, and Sixth Finch. Gold Wake Press named his full-length manuscript a finalist during their 2015 open reading. He self-published a chapbook, Rocket Children, in 2012, and a chapbook with Finishing Line Press, The Art of Dissolving, in 2016. He lives in Maryland.
speaking ovarian cancer
Notes for a Poem about News
The Wedding of Psyche
The Vine of the Dead
A The Is The The Is The A
by Lila Zemborain
KJ Hannah Greenberg
Gators Packed Like Multinationals
Inside the Roche Limit
Because an Island is Encouragement