Gogmagog

April 1, 2022

Sam Fletcher has written for magazines, anthologies, newspapers, and stages. A lot of his stuff tends to be about gods and animals. These days he freelances from his bedroom in Honolulu, HI. To read his other published work or keep tabs on what’s coming, visit fletcherstories.com or follow him @fletcherstories on Instagram.

 

My foot falls and landslides.
The earth contracts
like a smacked abdomen.
A thousand apples rattle off trees
and roll into the valley I make. I eat
all of them; even the rotten ones
as I tromp to the ocean.
Dive in knowing I could find the bottom.
I wave neighborly and sandstorms.
They power the city.
Exhale a cloud of static—
Feed-fire-for-fun
Knock mountains off balance to test if
they’re made of mud.
I wear all these puny clothes,
drink my water in drips,
bundled beneath breached ceilings.
I hear voices. So far away.
They tell me I fit just fine,
that I’m going through something
I know my tongue couldn’t.
No food fulfills me—
Eat-my-own-thumb