Shea Newton lives in Idaho. He's climbed many things (trees, ladders), but never a plateau. He wants to climb a plateau.

Two Poems (May-ish, 2011. Issue 28.)

Our Crisis

The birds under the bed have scratched their names on the floorboards. There is a worm in the sink writhing like a creature in ecstasy. It wants to be a butterfly. It wants to write self help books and work talk show circuits. I want it to take me out to lunch and coyly brush my hand. I want it to call the birds by name then watch the horizon expand as they carry me into the sky, where I will call down from the clouds, "We will be together when you metamorph! I know what it is to take flight!"

Safety

The trees outside are overgrown, with young branches that can't support their own weight. Some bend far enough and touch the ground. They may be apple trees. And their apples may grow like roots into the soil. Their apples may become feet on untried calf legs that will struggle to find their footing and then to find their place in the orchard where their mother is sure to be. I will sit where they had been and imagine shelter, sifting cool upturned soil through my hands. The sun will sting my face.