Friday, February 12, 2016


We made creatures out of wood,
conjured from mud, our ten year old spit

in woods so deep, you could take a leak
and no one would care. Every dead tree

was a boy who tripped us. The girls who stood
like maples by our lockers. Every time the wind blew

the doors to the lockers closed. If they looked at you
words would rush in like wind from a rain storm

and explode on the ground. There was nothing left
to do but walk, get deeper into thicket

until every green arm crossed in missed embrace,
every new tree and overgrown weed leaning into sunlight

became the girl who stood at a bus stop
 one summer with a choice to make—

run her hands through her dark hair and ignore you,
or pull her phone out as if to call you, let it ring and keep ringing

until the weather changes, leaves turning from green to red.
One quick breeze, and they fall to the ground.

About Robert Walick:
Robert Walick is the curator of VERSIFY, a monthly reading series in Pittsburgh, PA. His work has appeared in HEArt, Uppagus, VerseWrites, and on the radio show Prosody. He won 1st runner up in the 2013 Finishing Line Open Chapbook Competition and was awarded finalist in the 2013 Concrete Wolf Chapbook Competition. He currently has two chapbooks published: A Room Full of Trees (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2014) and The Almost Sound of Snow Falling (Night Ballet Press, 2015)

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