Issue 5 | Publishing Genius Press | Keyhole
Baby Cheeks
Brian Foley
Inside the walls of their mouths
hide the potatoes
that keep them from talking.
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Leash
Brian Foley
Every time I walk the dog at night I am murdered.The neighbor’s lights have all gone to bed with them.
The road is beyond dark. A shapeless canopy, the sky.
From behind the glass door, the thin reflection of my own
hand turning the lock on the eyes of the animal behind the glass
watching me, wanting to come in for the night.