MY SUBURBIA WAS A WOODLAND
I had enough. Tired from branching;
Split from dreams—I may stay and
Let that bark peel me. I’ll be a
Hardwood splinter caught off
A roadside thicket.
—excise me, man—
I can’t, but I feel you. Fuck
The force of nature. I’m going to
Refuse, and take it—this world
Off its feet. Higher, I’ll say.
Take me deeper. I’ve seen it. I’ll push
To read in textbooks, smut, magazines
Tucked up the back shelf—until
It’s pain; until I’m sure. I’ll leave
Impressions of deep-leaf smoke
Rye in cabins and unstained planks.
Better tramp those needles of redpine now,
Balance rocked on soles, aimed from between
Wish-boned thighs into blots of night. But try
Stamping out a world that burns this cheap.
A new forest goes down on the radio. There,
Every light on, and my response—a gift,
A secret tocsin, made of static; wagging its tale.
Flares issue worlds, once down, detonate—
Extinction. There loss; now pity—headlines wild,
Saying outright—unnatural. Can you feel the end of it?
Please, gore my splinter out with your thumb—bite where I went in.
By • R L • powell
Biography:
𐤟 R L 𐤟 powell (he || they) is a writer of poetry, prose, and whatever happens to be in-between. He is a Phd candidate at the University of Toronto, where they occasionally teach rhetoric and theory. Their recent work appears in a variety of publications, online and in print. His experience as a queer and neurodivergent individual provides a strong influence to much of their work—as does living with disability—and much of their life has existed outside the norm; but their omnivorous interest in culture, high and low, is equally significant to the eclectic range of his output. Recent examples of their work can be found in The Eunoia Review, Haven Spec, Impossible Archetype, and elsewhere. He doesn’t maintain a presence on social media, but does try to keep on top of their website at, rl-powell.com.