By Jordan Sanderson

There was no making sense of the pine fall.

The whole yard laid out like

A fleet of log trucks collided

With some Humbaba of the Loblolly

Forest. Even though the house stood

Unharmed, we couldn’t enter it, the turning

Of the doorknob more than we could bear.

The scent of pinus taeda pulped the air.

We breathed deeply. We could not breathe

Deeply enough. We rubbed our fingers

Against the grain of exposed trunks,

Longing for a splinter. We tongued rings.

A stunned turkey looked at us as if to gobble.

Locked inside the world, we cobbled a door

From flakes of bark, but it was too large for us

To enter. We peered through a beetle hole

Just in time to see a barge hauling a new river

Through the hospital in which we were born.

Jordan lives near the Gulf of Mexico. His work has appeared in Phantom Drift, Fiction Southeast, Mockingheart Review, Better, and other journals, and he has published two chapbooks, The Formulas (ELJ Publications) and Abattoir (Slash Pine Press).


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