Current
Issue
Fall 2026 / Volume 13.1
Adam Houle
—
Twig Gets Us Thinking While Twisting a Poodle, Continental
Twig poses a question:
How many balloons
can your mind imagine?
Hot air ones. Round ones.
Mylar. Rubber. Angioplast
to keep open the path
to your stupid heart.
Zeppelins or blimps
above a tinny pageant
or stadium-bowled vicious event.
Balloon over ocean.
Limpid ones limping along
a county road in snow.
Popped ones tied to a toddler’s beltloop.
Silk, ceramic, bereavement.
Bundles bobbing over a graveyard.
Balloon swords, balloon hats,
balloon boats turning in currents
with swans and balloons
in the hands of a man
with a needle and a temper.
Each pop like a gunshot.
Reckless in a room so full.
Reckless in a country so cruel.
Sad Dizzy Brave
They’re leaving and leaving
us wedged between the swingset
and a chore list. Our fathers wilt
like cut flowers in August,
adrift on consequence.
They don’t return calls,
don’t text back. Don’t turn
when their name is finally pulled.
Don’t turn, I’ll say. It’s fine.
I know to tidy up and check the locks.
Stay out forever. Have a nice time.
Electric Teapot
Nothing extravagant. Functional,
direct like a filet knife.
Hinged lid. A couple buttons.
One minute element
to boil it up quick.
A gift
from someone who’s done
with gifts. She was kind,
thought of others and thought
now keeps her. It’s never enough.
Adam Houle is the author of Stray (Lithic Press), a finalist for the Colorado Book Award. His poems have appeared in AGNI, Shenandoah, The Journal online, and elsewhere. He lives in South Carolina and teaches at Francis Marion University.
