Two-Hundred Eight
I mostly miss the smell
like mud-sunk cardboard
and broad acrylic canvas
characters / sitting
characters / tendons taut
in throbbing ankles of these
characters / house cats pawing
at waterlogged couch cushions
of front porches, foyers
and I’m amazed by you
by the steady breaking
as I crawl away from you
and the tooth-aching seizure
as I smell you and smell you
in the dead air / stuck
in the fibers of these pillows
coupled on my damp bed
no memory exists
without its sensory
c o u n t e r p a r t
so I hose down
moving boxes
and sleep soundly atop.
Hot Glued
it's kind of like tripping
over uneven pavement
or the cracks in Rea Rd.
the way we used to walk home
so busy laughing at trees
i'd forget their leaves
and fall, scraped knees
mirroring yellow grass
Your mother's lips
would right my patella
Your father's singing
would stop the red
we'd sit on the couch
‘til the moon came out
You'd call me a scaredy cat
walk me home
where i'd lay on my mattress
and dream of Your ceiling
hot glued glow-in-the-dark
Bethlehem stars
it's kind of like tripping
but i don't fall anymore
i just keep gathering speed
exponentially: stumbling
way down Rea
past Bryant Farms
clutching at stop signs
all along Mockingbird
Headford
&c.
until my soles are worn through
and You wave from your porch
as i keep tripping
and tripping
and tripping
on past
C.T. McGaha is a writer from Charlotte, NC. His work has been previously published in Gambling the Aisle, Haunted Waters' Press' From the Depths, and Crab Fat Literary Magazine. When he's not writing, he's driving down Central Avenue, blasting Outkast's "Aquemini."