Poetry by Devon Brock.
I am the stickman you drew as a kid, the one you flipbooked on the corners of every Christmas catalogue that hogged your time and pencil. Oh how smooth you drew me - and thin. And I remember when you gave me a bike, rolled me right off the page, right there at the hardwares... Continue Reading →
You left hair in the tub, toothpaste splatter on the mirror, a wadded towel on the rod, wet footprints on the floorboards marking a stumble to the kitchen where you guzzled milk from the carton, there with the door open, cold spilling out like flumes to your feet - and I loved it. A sudden... Continue Reading →
