Shya Scanlon


I'm short some. I'm callow, caw. I'm cork. I'm grin about to grab you, grab about to take you home. Please. Do not bite your little fists, or place your cake-face at my feet. Do not span, or spoke. I'm a none-lister, a no-taker. I will flake you off, and feed you. I will coach the cancer forward, and fetch you. Watch: the river takes by, and slow, but takes handily, a harder form of asking. It does not let you answer. It does not let you feel the greater wetness pulling moisture from your skin.



Where this biting, biting? Where the first stitch to pull, the first pull to sew me up? Where the alter(c)ation? I paused I felt a kick, I felt my rivers ending. I brought my head up, head out, head hurting, and I formed a gash with(in) my mouth. I was the sound. I was the water broke through, a forecast, and I did nothing. Will this sweetness sit with me forever? I stitched I formed a plan, I brought my daughter up to understand the difference between distance and other forms of darkness.




These two pieces are from a one hundred piece cycle of 7 line poems called In This Alone Impulse. Other pieces of this work can be found around the web, if you look hard enough. Because I wrote a few at a time, the cycle tends to go through "moods." These two seem rather dark, and possibly low on hope. But do not despair, it gets much funnier later.