BRYAN C. MURRAY
The open newspaper
&soft yellow sizzling in the small
breakfast pan give order to these mornings,
walking to this table in my boxers
&undershirt or straight
from the shower, toothbrush
in mouth, dripping on the floor,
reading you something tragic
from the day’s paper—
A pregnant woman was shot in the head
but the angel in her belly
still fell out.
How did you sleep?
as though I didn’t feel you nudging
my side through the darkness
&rolling away from me
toward the chill of the wall.
While I undress the last pin
wedged deep in the collar
of my new shirt,
you share visions of a woman
(maybe the same one)
who poured out children
like a hydrant
on city streets, as the babies pressed
through her, drizzling their oils of life
collecting in the cracks of the concrete.
Water babies, I offer, as if it were
a normal assumption. Nodding,
you slide eggs on my plate
or hands gripping the sink, look
out to the world past our window
then walk away. Somehow,
I missed the point, so I too
stare through this glass box
only to see the hydrant—situated
on the street, untouched until
things catch fire or until
the heat makes it too tempting.
Bryan Christopher Murray, poet, musician, graduate of Bucknell University, student of Virginia Tech’s MFA program, born and raised in the Bronx, New York, has recently published in Floyd County Moonshine, and is forthcoming in The Northville Review, GUD, and Blue Fifth Review.