Justin Runge
Childhood
In bed, shivering limbs. In bed, phantoms from the closet. In bed, the family cat.
In bed, wallpaper roses. In bed, prayer. In bed, where a tooth was, a videotape.
In bed, homecoming is only sound. In bed, woken up to a gumball. In bed, the
saber-toothed tiger story, the legend of a paper route witch. In bed, compelled to
see with my hands down the hall. In bed, soon-bloodied, an ear. In bed, prayer. In
bed, the top sheet makes it safe to breathe. In bed, softly gagged, the news, here’s
Johnny. In bed, phone in hand, radio low. In bed, below, the basement’s moans.
In bed, amplified highway. In bed, home invasion. In bed, prayer. A new use of
hands. The only correct place for this.
Disassembly
Wriggle this body’s bolts loose.
Dismantle its housing, its chassis.
Find glitches. Break into broken.
A virus enters the held-open door.
Take the scissors. The screwdriver.
Snip the wires. Listen for fizzle.
Flush the heat built in yourself.
Cut new windows into dark.
Give this diorama its mouth.
Justin Runge lives in Lawrence, Kansas, where he serves as poetry editor of Parcel. He is the author of two chapbooks, Plainsight (New Michigan Press, 2012) and Hum Decode (Greying Ghost Press, 2014). Recipient of the Lawrence Arts Center’s 2014 Langston Hughes Award, Runge has published in Best New Poets 2013, Linebreak, DIAGRAM, and elsewhere. He can be found at www.justinrunge.me
Return to July 2014 Edition
In bed, shivering limbs. In bed, phantoms from the closet. In bed, the family cat.
In bed, wallpaper roses. In bed, prayer. In bed, where a tooth was, a videotape.
In bed, homecoming is only sound. In bed, woken up to a gumball. In bed, the
saber-toothed tiger story, the legend of a paper route witch. In bed, compelled to
see with my hands down the hall. In bed, soon-bloodied, an ear. In bed, prayer. In
bed, the top sheet makes it safe to breathe. In bed, softly gagged, the news, here’s
Johnny. In bed, phone in hand, radio low. In bed, below, the basement’s moans.
In bed, amplified highway. In bed, home invasion. In bed, prayer. A new use of
hands. The only correct place for this.
Disassembly
Wriggle this body’s bolts loose.
Dismantle its housing, its chassis.
Find glitches. Break into broken.
A virus enters the held-open door.
Take the scissors. The screwdriver.
Snip the wires. Listen for fizzle.
Flush the heat built in yourself.
Cut new windows into dark.
Give this diorama its mouth.
Justin Runge lives in Lawrence, Kansas, where he serves as poetry editor of Parcel. He is the author of two chapbooks, Plainsight (New Michigan Press, 2012) and Hum Decode (Greying Ghost Press, 2014). Recipient of the Lawrence Arts Center’s 2014 Langston Hughes Award, Runge has published in Best New Poets 2013, Linebreak, DIAGRAM, and elsewhere. He can be found at www.justinrunge.me
Return to July 2014 Edition