All you want to do is chop down
a tree. You start carrying an axe
with you wherever you go. Even
to church. Especially to church.
You begin to think that everyday
is Sunday. Your legs move slow-
er than they used to. Your hands
tremble as you talk to your mom
over the phone. She’s doing fine.
She’s worried. Did you chop the
tree down yet? She wants you to
know she is proud of you. She is
proud of you. You call an ex-boy
friend of yours, but he can’t talk-
he’s recently adopted a new dog,
and his hands are full. You think
you should be more upset about
this, but you are calm. You are so
calm. You go to sleep with your
axe next to you, like a lover that
doesn’t breathe. In the morning,
you are in a field. Your branches
are the only shade for miles. You
are so happy. So calm. So slow.
You think of all the things you’ll
have time for now, as two teen-
agers carve their love into you.


darling please
call me
                        but I am so dissatisfied
with royalty now
            your crown of teeth
            is an island
                                    of numbers
really               a code
            of                     numbers
                      kiss my
            forehead with your
                                    you have solved
this body of mine feels like
this body of mine
                                    when    you
            are near me
at                     least in
                                    we are
            beautiful peasants
learning           to                       trust

Dalton Day died once, but he's cool now. He is an editor for FreezeRay Poetry. His poems have appeared in The Good Men Project, Heavy Feather Review, among others, and is the author of Supernova Factory. He can be found at myshoesuntied.tumblr.com and on Twitter @lilghosthands.