Poetry by Zachary C. Bush


Love was spending Sunday
Mornings in bed wrapped in you,
Laughing at the weeping angels
Blanket curled, leaned against
The grey brick corner of my mind, holding
Soggy cardboard signs that read:

[Will Work for Some Pity]

That was life, the only reality
We could swallow without a glass of water.
And it was that way until
The day of expulsion, when
You tilted your head
And looked me in the eyes.

You saw artic-blue glass shatter
Into shards. You said I am a person not a muse!
Before asking me,
What makes you so much better then the bums?

Zachary C. Bush, 23, is a writer of poetry and prose. He lives in Statesboro, Georgia. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in various small press journals and e-zines including The Noneuclidean Cafe, Underground Voices, Thieves Jargon, VOX Journal, Zygote in My Coffee [# 4], R.KV.R.Y Quarterly, Word Riot, and GHOTI Magazine. He is the author of two forthcoming chapbooks through Scintillating Publications and Pudding House Publications. He is currently organizing his first full-collection of poetry.