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  • Writer's picturejonah meyer

babe fashions his own crevice, moon hangs low, glows like neon (by winter matthew)

the boy had fashioned his own crib. he craved escape from the elements, the thunderous applause. now it is nighttime and the boy decides to acquire a new hobby. he wrestles the bars of his crib, the padding, the soft blanket – it’s swirls & patterns detailed in rich greens & blues. the boy (smirk on his round baby-powder face) assembles the materials into something useful. he considers music. the absence thereof. bends the thin brown wooden bars into a sturdy circle – w/ a protruding, fretted arm. extracting malleable substance from the bedding until it becomes drum-skin, he plucks notes of boom-chick-ah,boom-chick-ah within the package; the young child is pleased with his invention. let us call it a banjo (of sorts). all this work has left the child exhausted. night begins to creep into the prose-poem. the moon is a red-ripe cherry, glowing, hung low in the stardust sky just beyond the infant’s nursery window. he reaches a chubby, trembling, thirsty hand toward the pane. thru the glass. into the nightsky, which resembles a dark purple velvet painting. a smashingly- bursting thru said window brings 5 metal strings to life. this shall suffice, says the boy to no one in particular. he is weak. it’s draining, performing actions an 18-month-old is not equipped to handle.

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