Seeing more           death than white, a blank wall, pages

smothered                with type             bursts,

Dan put divorce in his mouth, his pistol

exclaimed yes, his finger                  hooking

 “e” or “s,” whatever, letter to letter,

was the trigger that should have been “y”

as in “yet,”              as in “not the final letter”

and “you,”              not rush

as when you can’t stand what flashes on whites screens,

no matter how stale the popcorn, how blurry the images,

or the crap acting, plot or soundtrack.

The bullet                 lodged              at the back

of his perception,                his life

became a semi-colon,               mid-sentence—

—a moving

away, like reading a book with whole chapters  

indecipherable.                Like me

with my brother—an astronomy guide for

an uncharted cosmos;              we walked,

independent                planets, so far apart

between our covers.               And still, my

brother was my binary star—same cosmic dust, iron

cores              magnetically attracted. Our            radial

velocities                   warped            cataclysmic. We

tore each            other’s orbits;            gravity

would have either killed us               or forced us

to pull each other apart,              page after page

yanked                from their binding, out of the sky.


Volume 12.1 - June 2019

Jonathan Yungkans is a Los Angeles-based poet, writer and photographer and an MFA Poetry candidate at California State University, Long Beach. His work has appeared in Twisted Vine Literary Journal, West Texas Literary Review and other publications. His poetry chapbook, Colors the Thorns Draw, was released by Desert Willow Press in August 2018.