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MacQueen’s Quinterly: Knock-your-socks-off Art and Literature
Issue 12: March 2022
Poem: 122 words
By Evan Vandermeer


Twice this week upon 
waking, I’ve found the bed frame 
a good six inches from where it was 
the night before. 

There’s a black streak on the wall 
marking its mysterious, scraping course. 
I have no memory of movement to explain this, 
but I suppose it’s possible 

there’s violence to my tossing. If not violence, then 
something else—maybe fear. My room in Prague 
was small, trapezoidal, with one wall 
that slanted from floor to ceiling, 

a wall she watched me struggle against, 
like Atlas, asleep but feverish and straining 
under the weight, a heroic somnambulator 
whose gift was unconsciousness 

—an echo, perhaps, of wading out 
into the moonlit lake 
and being found, waist-deep in the glossy stillness, 
still dreaming. 

Evan Vandermeer
Issue 12, March 2022

is an emerging writer whose poems are published in Grand Little Things, Analecta, Kingfisher, Modern Haiku, bottle rockets press, and Wales Haiku Journal, and are forthcoming in hedgerow, Presence, and contemporary haibun online. He will graduate in May 2022 from the MA English program at Indiana University, South Bend, where he lives with his wife, Megan.

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