Current Issue               Submissions               Round Table






If, from the egg,
my tongue was a dry black flap,
yet a tactile speaking thing,
I wouldn't question
the words I learned to say.

I'd demonstrate my feathers
and my ice pick toe,
as it reams
my itching, wandering eye.

Hanging around
with piratical you,
I nictitate,
I groom.

My walnut cortex teems
and thuds.
My speaking and my colors
are for show.

You pierce
the meat of this,
but there's no knowing
what you know.

      — Scott Murphy

Hear Scott Murphy read 'Parrot's Landing'