Three Poems from wren james


Original image via Morguefile

grandma’s house

folded palms dance
on the hood of the car. drive
up to the attic and pull out
the sun, drag it out of the house
hold it like a host. i give it to you
to swallow. it’s fine when
we’re together. it drips out
your eyes. it sounds out
your mouth, but even if you
cough, i can never swallow you

— ∞ —

local news is still news

last night while you were
sleeping, i went down
to the traintracks. i lay
on the floor by the metal
and the stones. i pulled dead
leaves over my body like a blanket
it was warm in there because all
around me was dying. if i held
the composting leaves close
they would suck me down
with them in a quicksand
of wherever they were going
back to. i wanted my head
pulled up as my body was sucked
away. i wanted the stars in my eyes
as the last thing i ever i saw
i wanted you to worry

                              where i was

— ∞ —


the east side gallery. the river
spree. i can see the O2 world blinking
and blinking. dangling our feet
over the concrete bank, smoking
cigarettes, flicking the butts into the water
i don’t feel so bad because
it’s better than shooting bullets
into the water


wren james lives quietly near the ocean with his wife and children. Find him: @wrenajames and

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