3 Poems By Hunter Conway



I didn’t realize all my bones could feel. That’s worth repeating: I’m tired of screaming, tired of being tired. I am so full and yet I hold: Breath, lungs, two Oreos, a glass of milk, my wife’s thighs so high I am never not climbing. Gently, this heart she has given me. Still holding, I think about the last time I ate lightning (a Thursday in Des Moines) while outside, children wrestle summer. The children are losing and it’s not until the afternoon rain comes that the wrestling match is called off. We decide to preserve today in a jar, set it on a shelf as everything points to the west. Evening is my wife’s bathrobe draped along the carpet as she teaches my tongue how to butter toast. By midnight, I could French the alps. French the French. While dreaming in éclairs and thinking, There is life in this life. Éclat! I am already a shudder.




How many hands shed me of feathers on the day of my birth?

An assembly line plucking my collarbones and hips and

the not yet calloused parts of my feet. I am this now: tar-eyed,

connected dots color coded from dusty x-rays.

If you must know, my dog is asleep on the couch,

my wife is at work, teaching adults how to read like kids,

and I am spending the morning waking up oxymorons.  

I just read on the internet about dry drowning.

It’s exactly how it sounds and if you must know,

it’s easier than you might think.

All you have to do is try. 



I pull a hat out of a bigger hat. I give medicine to the crying wolves. I take a two-hour lunch break and when I come back to work, there’s a news report (headline: Somehow, Ice) stating there’s a new home for the polar bears. I call you twice and you answer both times. You tell me you love how you have forgotten how to get dressed, how you plan to live forever in a mummified state, wrapped in 400-thread count Egyptian cotton blend. I don’t tell you that love is the third most confusing word that has ever fallen out of my temporal lobe. Instead, I tell you to find me out in the yard, planting chrysanthemums stanzas apart. Or, asleep on the couch, where my dreams are breaking the law. (In most of my dreams, I am murdering the sea.) I don’t ask you if you can smile a summer home because you are now standing next to me, under the willow that never complains about being a willow, and you can see what I can see: the magnolias are beginning to bloom again.

Hunter Conway's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Eunoia Reviewformercactus, and Tiny Flames Press. He can be reached at h.conway678@gmail.com .