Matthew Richards is a 19-year-old aspiring badass from the Granite State.   He’s been hitting up open mics throughout New England for the past two years, and has published two chapbooks.   He really likes the movie Hairspray, and his superpower is the ability to order vegan food at the push of a few buttons.   He was ordained in Manchester as Minister of the Holy Order of the Koalapus. He once stole Chuck Norris’s lunch money and lived.   You can send him an email at MJPhoenix711@comcast.net if you want to buy his newest chapbook or challenge him to a raspberry pie eating contest.

Three Poems (December 20, 2010. Issue 23.)

Autumn Snow

There is autumn red snow falling from the
sky.  My hands are cradling a rotting green
squirrel scooped from the top of the pool. Its
stomach is squirming with dragonfly larvae, and
its fur is rubbing off in my palms.  It feels as
alive as my grandmother before the last 
feeding tube.  She is disappointed. She asks
why I didn’t let her float.  At this moment,

I wish I was in preschool.  Wish I was still
choking caterpillars in the bushes behind the
sandbox.  Wish I was still front-pew belting
Be With Me Lord right before swing set orbit,
right before forward leap, right before broken

wrist.  This will always be the first snow. This
will always be the last time the clouds were
this red.  My feet are encased in blocks of ice
and I can’t remember how to swim.  I haven’t
tasted chlorine in months.  The pool walls are
lined with dripping catheters too slippery to

cradle my back.  The damaged water is bleeding 
yellow.  There is a squirrel dissolving in my 
hands.   Grandmother’s eyes stare back at me—
they are worm-infested love letters with scratched
out names.  They are asking me to turn off the sun.

The Hunter

You sleep with a mule and a hunting spear
Under your bed
So the mountain lions don't 
Swallow your dreams.
Tonight, you are the last cow in the corral.
I watch from the doorway
As you brush the hay from your eyelids,
Unpin the donkey tail from your forehead,
Show me the pink underneath.

Broken Fence, do not teach me how to roar.
Your breasts are mountain peaks
I will never descend.
Your love,
The prey I dare not outrun.

How it Will End

You will wake up one morning without fingers
And try to pour yourself a cup of coffee.
The coffee will taste the same as it did
The day before
And the day before that.
You will not notice how much is spilled
Or the color it stains the rug.
It won't be too hot
And it won't be too cold, because
The ice maker on the fridge is broken
And you still haven't called to have it fixed.

You will sit on your feet in the middle of the living room
And turn on the news.
There are no looters
Or hijackers
Or explosions
But so many things are disappearing:
A woman's car keys in Concord
A man's shadow in Vermont
The f-sharp note of a piano scale
The meaning of the word language.
Lady Liberty will still be standing on Ellis Island
But no one will remember her name
Or why she only wears green now.

You will forget to turn off the television
And walk out the front door without shoes.
You will look up at the sky.
No fiery inferno; no clouds of locusts.
A pile of children's letters to God waits 
In the center of town like kindling.
There are no matches left to light it.
Four sleepless horsemen are stuck in traffic-
You hear their galloping over the sound
Of church bells and police sirens.
They've been circling the block for days.
They don't know who they're looking for.