Three Pieces
Parker Tettleton
Mastodon
It is sunny, sixty degrees & dropping like tears. There are people marching outside of my windows. The third sentence is an apostrophe: I disfigure the light at the end of the sofa. I want to say I say hi everywhere I go—to anyone, thinking of the marchers—but I don’t. I begin again with a ghost. I mean it when I say they look small & happy & full of purpose.
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I wake up thinking about versions of you. I leave it for my district, movement, errands. The third sentence is when Alex says our glasses are similar. I go back home after there is sunlight everywhere. I am writing no one right now. I like that, a few seconds ago, I cared only about the creases in a shirt.
When You Need Apollo, You Call Apollo
The thing about gods is they can’t be enough for me when I am looking out of this window because you’ve never lived here. The second sentence is a burst within a trap without a light with a little lip along the way. I don’t believe that always but this morning I woke up meaning something I meant to mean before when I asked you will you still be here in September?
Parker Tettleton is a vegan Leo living in Oxford, Mississippi. He is the author of Please Quiet (Ravenna Press, forthcoming 2018), Ours Mine Yours (Pitymilk Press, 2014), Greens (Thunderclap Press, 2012), & Same Opposite (Thunderclap Press, 2010). Parker Tettleton is online at parker-augustlight.blogspot.com.
