Two Poems

Zachary Evans
 About the Writer

Zachary Evans works at a comic book shop in New Orleans. He swears he has a black belt in karate but nobody ever believes him. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Fourteen Hills, Dose Rate, Butterknife, and The Tulane Review. You can almost definitely find him in bed. 



Infection. I loll my head to the side in

the dim stillness, you loll your head into

mine. So easy to lose track of days among

macaroni, comic books, roaches crushed on

peeling white paint, legs circling the air

above their caved-in selves. Tall fields of wheat

are growing, somewhere. I am telling

truths here in the dumb distilled echoes of

rented rooms and you are crying. I’ll be crying soon,

fat wet tears like jellyfish. We are monsoon.

We flood, we funeral. We do damage to ourselves

and emerge, wrecked and reaving. We torpedo.

We sink to the ocean floor. Let fish swim through our

ribcage. Let them learn from our mistakes.

Let them love like love like love. Our faces

gleaming sharply in the vicious, bitter tide.





to walk the prison fence with a backpack

full of shivs & avocados softly calling

names beneath the stars

but i digress:


how we got here is

a much more interesting story —

something to do with shattering

your grandma’s best china

& snorting lines of pale blue


porcelain all night

& pressed close kissing

in the darkroom

i said you’ve got to be less negative

(that was a photography joke)

& you said shut the fuck up




skimming light from drainpipes

into dirty palms, storing it in mason jars

to gather dust in basements with

unused treadmills, cookbooks, songs


you with your neck tattoo of wilted amaryllis

& me with my mistakes


our eyes spun wildly

in our skulls, jackpots

we gassed up the car

& you said let’s go already

our tongues sprang from our mouths

& coins poured out our throats


here there will be no probation