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m.g. martin





wherever the snow refuses
the sun is where we meet
for the millionth time         all million everything
i’m obsessed with your dead skin and formulating a plan
to learn to touch things
whether it’s haunt or hunt i will do that to you

here we are         again         swallowing all the city’s snow
as though the universe will only end
when it’s run out of things to steal and reproduce as something new
so we’re good

who does sadness turn to
when the moon finally explodes
after all these decades we are starting to smell
like all these decades

so         yes i’m selling off my own agency
to become the target of your tongue
and its language to become endless
to open my body in the middle
of july and find that my body
is filled with snow
so          yes i am gifting you
my body’s snow




shadow of no doubt


but trees really do sleep and we grow
and crack until the light comes

if i could place anything in my eyes
i’d choose the moment before you
die so that you never would
so i’m placing that moment now

when i’ve trouble sleeping i think of anything
opaque          i imagine what trees dream of
i cut our dreams in two and trade halves
with myself

let’s stare into each other’s pores and count
backward from infinity        

                                                       last night
i cut a hole in your arm and planted
the seeds of a weeping willow
you are a talented sleeper

when a tree falls in a forest
we twist ourselves into something obscure

can i hold onto your you like a fist
full of steam until my ghost
dies and becomes a ghost
or at least your favorite




the feels


since we met the only thing that’s mattered is again

we never shit talk the river
in the dead of winter         that is not what night is for

instead we scatter the ashes of the skies’ last cloud
over the river

after our last day
our dreams will be set alight together
our bodies          the forest before the wildfire

wow we’re existing in spite of the politics of pain
wow i will absolutely recycle myself for you

the river is a form of graffiti against the night
waterfalls are lazy         i’m sketching your breath

nothing is greedier than the blackness of a new moon

at least i awake in the night
next to you wearing nothing
but the night


imagine being the last cloud in the sky
imagine nothing but a corridor and the desire for darkness

when you leave for the river i am the sadness  
a human spitting at a forest fire







M.G. Martin is the author of One For None (Ink, 2010). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in ZYZZYVA, Juked, iO, Sink Review, and Word Riot, among others. M.G. teaches, writes, and lives on Maui with the poet: Tess Patalano, and the dog: Ihu. You can find him here and here.