Five Points Vol. 24, No. 1
Sample Content
Mickie Kennedy
Morning at Duck Run
My throat I thought
while he sipped his own ash.
Look it up, he unsaid.
I picked up his hill—a straw wrapper,
crushed can. The ground
was frozen, huffing and stamping,
ice running its mouth.
Of this, he gave sporadic
meaning—the clinks of two whiskeys.
Three runes on a breeze-licked lake
where his muse—
a muscular boa constrictor—
swallowed compound words.
We thought there’d be more.