• Broadkill Review

Two poems by Adam D. Weeks


Kangaroo Rain


“Step outside and the air is a weight you bear.” –Catherine Pierce


We used to play in an empty

swimming pool, skin on cement

and nothing to keep us afloat. Remember

the whispered enemies kept between you, me

and the diving rock, the lights that blued

beneath our feet before the water

came. We weren’t scared of the deep

yet, below all that stone and piping, mending

our skinned knees together. The rain gave way

to our camp and washed the mud from our boots, filling

us over the burgundy edge. We wore the wind like camouflage,

heavy on our shoulders as we swam free

from the burning high tide. The water didn’t take

our battlements or soak our cardboard canopy—even the storm fell

off our ramparts, over with the runoff, the moat

around our forged fortress. Those days we bathed

in nothing but the sun, our toes treading

everything between concrete and brackish.



Letter to a Floating Piano


For Molly McCully Brown


Imagine something lovelier,

if you could, sweeter


than the other or the storm

or the dove you can carry


in your mouth without causing

a bruise. Boy taken and smeared


along a dirt road, smattered, girl buried

in snow and another buried in her


hair. You said if I swallowed

enough wings I’d feel lighter


than everything in my stomach.

You said we’d be the same, girl


with her fist in her mouth, boy who bites. The only way to talk

about pain is this: girl as a gas-lit


coal, boy as a self-

inflicted burn.


 

Adam D. Weeks is a junior undergraduate student studying creative writing at Salisbury University. He has poems published in Asterism and a poem forthcoming in Prairie Margins. He also has a fiction piece published in The Scarab.


165 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

In the ditch a deer carcass, no head from You Are Happy by Margaret Atwood It was a silent beauty I found, had yearling antlers, much more than the horny buttons of a fawn. Its fleshy muscles would pr

The Bigness of the Herd I can never get over the bigness of the herd, the stampede of clouds cascading over the warehouse, I-70’s commercial river of blood lights: heads or tails? Nothing could be mor