Contributor Notes

Mark Haunschild

Mark Haunschild






before they learned the rule of sound

children believed the rhythm of mockingbird’s song


traveled along the bark of branch it held

through trunk’s core


to roots in earth across a length of forest

to toes tickled by stiff mud


it might have been easier that way

to see the matter word was


carried on as it quivered up

to you without a name







before the books can burn the flames lick back into their depraved mouths

in reverse the print press comes before fire


letters peel themselves from pages roll back through the machines to that

            untouched pool of ink

gathering along the ridges of engraved teeth


coming to a screeching halt the wheel is discovered all over again

when it’s put back on its axle


set to motion a beginning ends

watch as the dead undo what has led to life in the first place


we learn to kill only after we have spoken—committed our words to history

we carry water before we begin to grow








the spider taps gently before it makes its entrance through

a break in the drawn curtains—imagine the fright


it causes—the stir of the gesture

as it ripples across an audience of moths


to grow in a wider swath—the dandelion—obliterated by light

springs into the wind without a mind to guide it to the other country 


without certainty we too tested the air—flaunting

our awkward and brittle wings


who says the persistence of the self can be quantified

in every molecule of atmosphere?—there is only so much


harm we can do as we wait for the next corn harvest

that final bow of October’s moon


after years we come to realize

that our bodies are wrapped in the same skin we were at odds with as



we dying in gratitude

we dead in meadows—we have only the things we have made


the songs we muttered to the dirt—in the other country

we are empty handed—there is nowhere else to go





If a Tree



without your ears to enjoy it

the twentieth-century continues to make noise


plunging through space—animals scream for their own purpose

cry out in a silly resistance to variation


and so the tree falls and truly it must make a thunderous crash

the rodents and birds as they are disheveled


by a furious air—a doe trots with her fawns

to the next meadow


you are not there to feel the breaking apart

the splinter when it snaps from the grain


theoretically we can go back in time—if only we could

go fast enough


the moment we would likely reach is the event horizon

at the center of Andromeda


the vantage point unfortunately matters—without your ears to hear it

the velocity by which things are made new clamors


how else would the gopher know the cat approaches downwind?

how else are we startled awake?





Evening Address



hey you—fat air with your mouth hung open

child bawling at the street corner


you hook-billed thrashers—you weeks waiting for rain

worm moon on the wane


you leafy greens

you shades


o bucket full of citrus—you!

pot boiling over


dear one thing after the other

dear sobriety


to the next giving moment—give it to me

one more time