Trapper Markelz
Trapper Markelz (he/him) is a husband, father of four, poet, musician, and cyclist, who writes from Boston, Massachusetts. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in the journals Baltimore Review, Stillwater Review, Greensboro Review, Passengers Journal, High Shelf Press, Dillydoun Review, and others. You can learn more about him at trappermarkelz.com.
On The Line
I can only tell you what I feel: no hunger,no thirst, no sense that I will disappearlike a vapor tank venting to atmosphere.
A black hole is firing charged particlesat my testicles and there is nothingI’m going to do about it this year—or next year
when the scythe comes for my sacrifice. The truth is, I could lay down on this floorand no one would notice for ages. I wouldn’t
actually lay on the floor—it’s a metaphor—but you’d need an MRI machine to really seethe hostage situation and the naked negotiator
carving up the spoils of a civil war—two sidesred and blue, black and white, amaranth and flame-of-burnt-brandy—the color of eyes.
A black hole is firing charged particlesat my testicles and there is nothingI’m going to do about it this year—or next year
when the scythe comes for my sacrifice. The truth is, I could lay down on this floorand no one would notice for ages. I wouldn’t
actually lay on the floor—it’s a metaphor—but you’d need an MRI machine to really seethe hostage situation and the naked negotiator
carving up the spoils of a civil war—two sidesred and blue, black and white, amaranth and flame-of-burnt-brandy—the color of eyes.
Place of Stones
It was America’s playground until the motels were blown away by Airbnbs, barns left to lean on age like old elephants shuffling well-worn paths in search of fresh water and a place to lick salt.
On this rural road, a taco truck waits among the fast-food options. Pickup trucks come and go, loading up on pupusas and tamales, handmade tortillas holding soft beef tonguein a blanket of chopped onion and cilantro.
There is a train tunnel here, built four miles long under the mountains and it cost ten times what they expected. The people who built it had dreams, but now we all run straight throughlike freight cars with a final destination.
Standing beside a picnic table in the muddy lot, I watch the world pass, eat my tacos, dripping sauce, turning napkins into glass. Some will wonder why I stopped, why I made this selection, and I wonder where they are going, and why they drive on by.
On this rural road, a taco truck waits among the fast-food options. Pickup trucks come and go, loading up on pupusas and tamales, handmade tortillas holding soft beef tonguein a blanket of chopped onion and cilantro.
There is a train tunnel here, built four miles long under the mountains and it cost ten times what they expected. The people who built it had dreams, but now we all run straight throughlike freight cars with a final destination.
Standing beside a picnic table in the muddy lot, I watch the world pass, eat my tacos, dripping sauce, turning napkins into glass. Some will wonder why I stopped, why I made this selection, and I wonder where they are going, and why they drive on by.
Anxious Prayer
There are slow moments when I bury my head in the pillows of a couch and can feel the time passing.
I can hear my fingernails grow with the sound of a slow rustle, the sloshy pickling of my skin,
the crackle of salt crystals forming at the edge of my eyes, the balloon stretch of hair growth in all the wrong places,
an inside that reaches for more,unsatisfied, overcompensating. When I think back later,
I will barely remember the relaxation. I might remember trying to remember like right now, but it will seem
like a fever dream of need, a forced attestation. I want to lie down more often, cover my eyes
with a hat like the boys have done for dozens of lifetimes, but hats are out of style—so is lying down,
so is unflexing the knuckled fistof endless farming. I promise to seek more shade to no one
in particular, to set down the spade,pull up my sleeves, wave my hands in the sky.
I can hear my fingernails grow with the sound of a slow rustle, the sloshy pickling of my skin,
the crackle of salt crystals forming at the edge of my eyes, the balloon stretch of hair growth in all the wrong places,
an inside that reaches for more,unsatisfied, overcompensating. When I think back later,
I will barely remember the relaxation. I might remember trying to remember like right now, but it will seem
like a fever dream of need, a forced attestation. I want to lie down more often, cover my eyes
with a hat like the boys have done for dozens of lifetimes, but hats are out of style—so is lying down,
so is unflexing the knuckled fistof endless farming. I promise to seek more shade to no one
in particular, to set down the spade,pull up my sleeves, wave my hands in the sky.
