horse tied off
if I were a horse I suppose
I would know no better than to race
through a meadow and kick up sod and soil.
and if you rode my back I would
pick up the pace
ready to assail the world
flip the sands, turn the plow.
and snorting my breath into the cold night,
tied off to a tree away from the warm fire
I would meditate on my devotion to you
when you ride my bare back
across wide open meadows
kicking up sod and soil
ready to assail the world
flip the sands, turn the plow.
ham
I sit here and write on this typer
on this bed because I’ve no desk.
this familiar mechanical crunching,
combining letters in odd combinations,
I look
for
new ones
comb my mind
drink
my whiskey
escape selling valves to power plants,
standing slanted,
leaning slightly right.
this bed is a ravine;
we have fucked a canyon into it—our rivulet,
for our bodies alone.
no one else fits here
I smile, move the typer left
to the corner
of the bed and look at the bird’s nest
curled on the mattress.
we’ve made smoke and magic here
our smell all that’s left
no scent of me
only us
thrusting our sorcery into one another
we are game players, entire baseball teams
cotton
satin
silk
down
you made me cum
until I stained the sheets green
as my eyes
and there is blue too
where you wept your salty oceans
I know you in this room
in the light sockets
in the sink
in the shower
on the carpet
in the glass of water by the bed
in the teal lamp
in the books, the laundry, the fan, the messes,
the need, the urgency
you are in it
you are in it
you came in to feed me ham
but I was typing this for you.
3
Roman Newell is a twenty-eight-year-old Army veteran. He grew up in the Oregon outdoors where he learned to watch and be still. He was schooled in West Point, New York, and has been afforded extensive opportunity to travel the world. He currently resides in Madison, Wisconsin, where he enjoys brisk walks, fast running, cigars, and true whiskey old-fashioneds.
Change Seven Magazine 