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The Bottomless Nursery

Timothy Wooley & Shea Crider

I thought I was ok

but I could tell by your silence

that you were not talking.

The pubescent girl

sometimes she wonders

Now I know why they call it a scavenger


Things unknown

form together out of nothingness

Like paper mâché on a chalkboard

and the belly of a crocodile.

I swam to the wrong part of the ocean

and drowned in the waves of your love.

They were salty.

I was nine years old.

Holographic bipartisan lingerie

hangs in my bead room.

I mean bedroom

it’s covered in beads.

Solely for the purpose of

personal satisfaction, I lay still.

Watching the hikers pass,

they tread on my back.

I wait for rain.

Marsupials have pouches

To carry their young.

I too have a pouch

to carry my emotional baggage

It’s Dior.

You dusted off your tie-dyed t-shirt

And headed to the planetarium.

Tuesday tentatively tickles the trees.

The moon clings to the sun

as I cling

to your mother’s dirty laundry

Humpty dumpty sat on a wall

Hump me and dump me.

A youthful little vagabond lurks

Beyond the howling pumpkin

I swear I saw an octopus

in your brown ocean eyes.

He fled when I drew near

Often I am rough.

Speak to me softly

like raisins rolling down a grassy hill.

Two gumballs sit on the table.

Hollow. Still. Waiting.

Her teeth are still crooked

as you empty your cup in my mouth

You taste it. So do I.

Two pears

sliding against each other

Creating friction.

I wish there was a word greater than love

I would feed it to my fish.

Elderly eggs

eagerly expecting eczema.

Aren’t we all

A little ticklish

On the inside?

Calling all zookeepers

please donate earwax

Creativity flows

like water from a faucet.

It all goes

down the drain.

Anteaters run amuck

In the trailer park

it’s five o’clock central standard time.

Gregarious grapes gargle garlicky


I knit a scarf made of all the promises you

didn’t keep.

And you better believe I gave it to someone

who wrapped it around his


Moistening the large armchair

For the big day.

Fog outside the window

churning like a washing machine.

Matrimony is in the air.

Spring, 2018 Issue

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