By Glen Armstrong


You did not say my name.

But I assume you were talking.

About me.

The Skrulls and the Kree.

Go to war.

I assume it was something I said.

A wet sock accentuates.

The tile on my bathroom floor.

Loose change obscures.

A photograph of me as a baby.


Being held as if in limbo.

By my mother.

As if that little pink human.

Sponge matters more than the vast.

Collection of matter and thought.

Beyond it.

I never had a chance.

You did not say my name.

Oh mighty universe.

But against all odds here I am.



Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry NorthwestConduit and Cloudbank.

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