in viscera

the seed bursts

in apex.

a roach

crunches—

cancer splits—

kidneys spill

sideways—

an appendix

folds itself

in viscera

as

a little

girl

looks to me

for father.

premature—

the sun engulfs.

I float fatalistic

as ember

in attempt

to dress a pale sky

blue.

those, flightless

5 hundred—

thousand,

birds

fold the bridge,

streetlamps—

and powerline.

1 holds the

water-tower.

passing under,

heads up—

we are amazed by

numbers

as they careen

themselves to

press the

worm.

those, flightless—

look down on us

the same.

bellyache

I don’t know

what to do 

with this

hand.

gutless—

water dries

as I blow

hoarse

tears upon

a day you held as

lilac.

where else 

would I go? 

someone

picks another 

piece—

I sink 

down the 

drain

in excess. 

the martyr drops—

the deer flies

south

through the windshield

as

I’m stuck

before you

alive.

not drunk,

just wasted— 

and I’m sorry. 

another goat,

swallowed whole

by the leopard— 

a snow owl,

plucked to death 

by its 

mother—

THE CRANE—

dead before dewpoint. 

it is over—

stoned

to callous. 

still breath

falters.

what’s left 

goes back to pasture. 

an old wind

against another

old

cottonwood

dies.

take me now

no different,

as I 

swallow my throat—

and weep.

(PHOTOGRAPH BY ROOTBOY)

sour, the sun

hardly noon—

already I see

nothing left

for dreams.

still, blood 

spills from my throat

like morning. 

I would palm you all

the apple,

and bite—

if only

I knew how to 

behave, or

survive.

I am aged,

and still—

impossibly

naive.

little past two—

the clouds have come.

it must be

subjective—

that man means nothing

to worms.

a father, or god—

I never wanted heaven,

hand me death.

equate it all

to nothing—

rip me from my 

despair,

so once

I might spill satisfaction

from my throat—

rather than

torrent—

self-spoken

“wisdom”

I spill to street 

and bird. 

the storm is here—

lightning rusts our lives

to tetanus.

though I pace the hour

I beg you—

send it.

sour as it 

may be—

release me. 

the floods steal the city—

the sun

throws white

in awning.

dragonflies

are fucking—

even they 

find no

peace.

I beg

send it sour,

split the sun—

release.

wilt

Christ is not so special—

not embellished, 

holy, or alone.

I too carry the cross. 

I’ve seen them—

kids on corners

or outside the superstore,

torn 

Saturday-to-Sunday 

shoes

in churches 

from attention, or 

lack—

begging or 

crying

upward

for a merciful

god. 

I have seen the white rose burning—

under Germany, or 

undocumented 

four oceans 

away. 

Take your ironies

and punch them

down

the drain

alongside their

autonomy or

innocence

or both—

and come up

for air

sour as the sun

forming now

and ever

their planted

black

dahlia.

M. R. Nowan is based in Des Moines, Iowa, and has been writing poetry publicly since 2023. Often calling himself a “dirty confessionalist,” he’s published two poetry chapbooks, As the Raven and in spite, the sun v.i, as well as the novella ~Chet.

His most recent project— Scatterworks, spreads hundreds of bottled poems and mini-zines across the Midwest, from Iowa to Michigan. 

*A recurring mark on his work, “!?!” serves as his signature, symbolizing his aggressive confusion with existence. Another motif, the phrase “write the sun.” reflects his belief that the only single audience member a writer should address is the sun itself.