MICHAEL SCHULZ is originally from Sparta, MI. He is a Teaching Professor at Bowling Green State University and lives with his family in Bowling Green, OH. His work has appeared in Sycamore Review, DIAGRAM, Barrow Street, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and Masque & Spectacle.
pink, bitter juice leaks across the sky,
wait for a drop to fall, for tang,
shut so tight stars blink, a shimmer
who can sleep with one eye open,
an aftertaste; in the past, one saved
the sun, hid it beneath its wing;
a palm, follows the sun line
here, now, a Russian man tells me
while his son takes piano lessons;
to juice at home; he pulls the lever;
birds twitter tireless prayers; together
an acrobatic swirl down the throat
sliced open on my way home;
head back, mouth open, tongue out;
puckered lips, cheeks sucked in, eyes
like swallow wings in twilight,
deep in roosts, in reedbeds, mud
a man after the flood, one saved
in the future, a lost feather licks
until it breaks; in the present,
he buys grapefruits at a market
it sells them in bags, he says, enough
one squirt stings, eye closes, holy
a group of swallows are a gulp,
sliced open on my way home;
pink, bitter juice leaks across the sky,
head back, mouth open, tongue out;
wait for a drop to fall, for tang,
puckered lips, cheeks sucked in, eyes
shut so tight stars blink, a shimmer
like swallow wings in twilight,
who can sleep with one eye open,
deep in roosts, in reedbeds, mud
an aftertaste; in the past, one saved
a man after the flood, one saved
the sun, hid it beneath its wing;
in the future, a lost feather licks
a palm, follows the sun line
until it breaks; in the present,
here, now, a Russian man tells me
he buys grapefruits at a market
while his son takes piano lessons;
it sells them in bags, he says, enough
to juice at home; he pulls the lever;
one squirt stings, eye closes, holy
birds twitter tireless prayers; together
a group of swallows are a gulp,
an acrobatic swirl down the throat
Volume 16.1, winter 26
Michael Schulz
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