Back to Issue Sixteen.

BALLISTIC

BY RICHARD QUIGLEY

 

When I was beginning to understand
The things I might be forced into, a swarm
Of U-boats came for me.

Gun cocked cold against an avalanche,
I plead guilty. Denied my body.

Whenever I end up surviving, I don’t know.

What I know: my school pictures are left best
In their negatives, how I’ll always have a fondness
For the people I can’t remember.

Soon, I will be glass.

There is something wolf in me.

If I were anything more
In this life, I’d let myself forget.

The white of my hand, every boat flagged down.

 

 

AT THE READY

BY RICHARD QUIGLEY

 

When the machine that kept us safe
Broke at its fulcrum,

The lovely noise came.

I'm not sure if I want God
Remembering himself inside me.

I'd rather be penned a map
Of all the miracles not called for:

The one in which the fox, decoyed by hunger,
Went lovingly into the trap.

Battered and bleeding, he still
Showed his teeth.

I want to know what it is I have left.     

 

 

Richard Quigley is a recent graduate of Columbia University's School of the Arts with an MFA in Poetry. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Phantom, The Grief DiariesB O D YBlack-Listed Magazine, and elsewhere. He lives and works in New York.

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