Spring 2014

Edited by ANDREA SPOFFORD | BARRY KITTERMAN | AMY WRIGHT



Poetry

Brother Tongue

Christopher Ankney


We said it was hella salty
when little Mario
called us crackers. 

We said it was bloody salty
when the Diamondback bit
our shins with its metal pegs. 

Your best friend Neil was full
of salty in every music video
not parading Marilyn Manson

in prosthetic breasts. He was
dope salty. The rest, salty
dopes. We wore flannel 

on our lips. Cobain filled us
like shakers. Our youth risen
out of pain, shared meals 

of salty. Neil's father timed
beatings. Salty, bro. Your
father, run off down South:

salty as all hell. People furrowed
at our salties – we drowned them
in more salty. All boys pour

a quiet language on wounds,
but it doesn't burn. Our world
salty – I double-dare you, look back.




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