The SWAMP REVIEW
Drive Down Redondo
by Galilee Marcos
I stand up, hair in the wind. Your convertible is
an old piece of junk, but it still
converts. You’re singing Woody Guthrie,
we’re the folk of the modern world.
The sunset is beautiful, but
you’re there so it’s not winning any pageants.
Pull over. Pull the top up. Kiss
my top lip and I’ll bite the bottom.
Switch off. Now we’re both in the wind.
You make it look natural. I’m scared
of what that means. We’re speeding
down an unknown road, my eyes wander off
toward you. The road leads
to your street. Oh good, we’re not lost, but
this wasn’t the destination either.
Come on, I know a spot. The wind
creates a tunnel, shielding us from
prying eyes. Driving down the same drive,
shrouded now in shadows
Pull over. Keep the top down. Kiss
my top lip and I’ll bite the bottom.
Fireside Excuses
by Galilee Marcos
The fireplace’s warmth is warmer
than the sun. Warmth
compared to heat.
The grocery store trip
I had with you to buy wood,
even though it’s an electric fireplace.
I just wanted an excuse. Under the piles
of blankets, I don’t know
whether I’m holding your hand
or my own.
We decide to watch a movie rather than
silence or our spilling thoughts.
We consider horror, but we
see that they’re just an excuse
of a movie. Modern romcoms are too.
Scroll and watch
a second of hundreds of stories
that could’ve been ours.
How about an action flick where the explosions
cover up the confusion
they might’ve created.
Or the movie you watched when
you were fifteen
that shaped your teenage years.
You haven’t thought about it in years, but
you don’t think about rocks upstream.
The river flows anyway, the fire’s
flames are still orange.
Until it goes out. We look
at each other and laugh. I’d watch
Every bad comedy if it was
Your chuckles on the track.
Maybe it’s the wood, we laugh some more.
I go to get another blanket, but you say to
just get closer. I’m out of excuses,
I know which line I’m crossing. We can’t decide
which scene to replay
in our heads. Save it for when
you fall asleep. Planet Earth plays,
we see the river, how it flows.
Stages of a Metaphor
by Galilee Marcos
I: Conception — I read a word in the paper,
it gave me a picture. I saw something and
made it to be something else. Came home to find my
chandelier fell, the shards put sparkles
on the ceiling. I put a name to the scene.
It spoke its first words.
II — Take it into my hands, a tall
wedge of clay. It’s larger than life, but I’ll
rip some off, dig my thumbs in to
make eyes. Throw it at the wal,l
see if it sticks. Throw it and see if it shatters.
The phrase has rough edges. Syntax juts out,
making the lip mouth different words.
Sweep the fragments of unfired clay into a
bucket. Throw it on a wheel, try
a vase instead of a bust.
III: Growth — The vase grows legs. Between
line breaks and similes, there’s a pulse.
Language lives in the curls
of the tongue. Cut its words,
like a gecko's tail, it’ll grow back,
similar but different.
Standing on its own, the ideas
I feed my work come out as
its own breath. My child,
my child, I kiss it for the last time.
IV: Reproduction — Metaphors line up
next to the other prose. All on display, I
take a photo before the rest of
the world can.
The shattered glass has been cleaned
now, replaced by a new, brighter light.
Entropy increases, I made less sense
of something with
no sense at all.
I let it go, hoping it’ll change shape. Live
again as a vase, or a bust, or a picture.
As a seed in someone’s mind, whispering
words to an idea.