David Schurman Wallace

issue 10poetry

Apr 1

I was a world-builder
who explained too much.

Wherever I traveled
I ended up again

in the house of my father
clutching his throat.

Captive after, I was thrown
through the bright tunnel, the

hyperspace of merchandise.
Always another artificial

moon to build, always
a companion to kill

and resurrect in the end.
Before I was invented,

exile was cold. I slept
in the carcass of an unknown

animal, siphoning warmth,
incubating eternity.

David Schurman Wallace is a writer living in New York City.

Megan Downey

Chelsea Wagenaar