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  Oct 2016 Morgan Rain
Joe Cottonwood
there is magic in concrete
        if you believe

when you work the surface
        flat, in circles,
the float tool buoyant
        on a gray puddle
here’s the enchantment:
with fingertips on the handle you can
        sense the wet concrete, the mojo
        like a sleeping wet bear
solid in mass yet grudgingly liquid
        sort of bouncy
        as you stroke

pebbles disappear, embedded
the tool is ******* cement
        a final thin film, a pretty coat
        over guts of gravel and sand

now hose the mixer, shovels, tools,
        hose your hands and boots
as the water disappears, so shall you
        unless you scratch a name

honor the skilled arms,
        the corded legs and vertebral backs
        the labor that shaped
this odd stone
        sculpted, engineered
        implanted with bolts
forgotten
half-buried in dirt
bearing our lives
First published in the Indian River Review
  Oct 2016 Morgan Rain
Chelsea Doyal
I ripped out and crumpled up the pages of our unfinished story.

After letting them lay untouched in the dark corner of my closet for months,

I picked them up, dusted the bad memories off, and flattened the wrinkles as much as I could.

It’s time for me to pick up the pen again, and write a new tale with a happy ending
Morgan Rain Sep 2016
Life's been at a stand still the last few years.
Growing myself wild within.
Content in the idle, while waiting for inspiration again.
So far my twenties has been not being myself
and watching my hair grow back,
while this writers block became what I am.

Nights, to weeks, to months, to years,
spent at a bar filled with normal oddities you find in such a small town.
Hoping to find some conversation, inspiration, something to
make me feel alive again.

idle                        idle                   idle


Until
another night came
ready to shoot some pool as usual
when a warm feeling ran down my back
and I looked to meet his gaze.
Him

A moment had never felt so long
so short
so right
so perfect,
and all at once the poetry came again.

Heat
rose cheeks
a mind always symphonic gone silent
at a loss for words
thoughts
like the wind had been knocked out of me.
I drop my eyes
pupils now wide at my shoes
as I finally process a thought,
"****".

For days, to weeks, to months,
I reprocessed that eye contact to "****"
trying not to let my reddening complexion
my dilated eyes
give my wandering mind away,
as words trickled into a flow of conversation.
Shared thoughts, passion, beauty spouting from his lips
kept pouring
and pouring
until my chest was filled to the brim
spilling
I looked at him and thought

" love "
inprogress
Morgan Rain Sep 2016
Bi
Always been openly queer

Bisexual
as attention seeking as it seemed for a young girl to be.

How
are you supposed to know what kind of body
your lovers soul
is reborn in?

Why
limit your search
for your "one"
with modern social constructions
and religious heterosexual binds?

My sexuality
who I love
is who I love...

Whoever they are
whichever body they've found themselves in
this time.
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