1 Poem by Eric Wallgren
The Nightly Grind
Normally I’m tired of complaining
before I even start and now,
I’m exhausted. In the middle
of dragging a sleeping elephant by
the trunk across a river of sawdust
and gold, I shatter. The moon curls
below my feet and I feel—not total
comfort but not total discomfort--
something between mud trudging in
piercing frostbite and fucking in
the golden late morning. It’s at that
point now. I’m swearing off light
because I know I’m about to fall into
a glassy pool and then at the surface,
it will happen again: I’ll step out into
the wide glowing night with a desire
to be hunted. Then when somebody
really does try and shoot, I’ll run.
Normally I’m tired of complaining
before I even start and now,
I’m exhausted. In the middle
of dragging a sleeping elephant by
the trunk across a river of sawdust
and gold, I shatter. The moon curls
below my feet and I feel—not total
comfort but not total discomfort--
something between mud trudging in
piercing frostbite and fucking in
the golden late morning. It’s at that
point now. I’m swearing off light
because I know I’m about to fall into
a glassy pool and then at the surface,
it will happen again: I’ll step out into
the wide glowing night with a desire
to be hunted. Then when somebody
really does try and shoot, I’ll run.
Eric Wallgren is a writer and musician living in Chicago. His writing has appeared in Prelude, Entropy, Maudlin House, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, and elsewhere. His Last EP, The Flowing Burial Ground, was released via Midwest Action in 2019. He’s on Instagram @wallgrenspharmacy.
