Welcome to the 21st Issue of Waccamaw,

We are glad after our storm again, and our storm again, and as these fires blaze, to bare the weapons that curl our skulls. As feasts trace our breath, and when our griefbooks are an unclean escape, we must redirect the flow. We are out in the street pajamas and all.

The search sometimes leads to a shed. Our fingers pressed against our will. Is guilt the point? Our clench and swallow is only a flutter, an arrhythmia attached to dirt. Under the house we tuck these shootings, birds, hair, a compost thick with what is supposed. That rough knuckled enough.

We wrap in the Atlantic. Our eyes flood blood wide.

The trunk ground to sawdust survives even death. Spray it with milk. Soften the knocks and tuck the jumps. Rage with your signs. But I repeat:  Let us keep our pencils.

We hope to be wolves moaning torrents in the dumb dark name of progress. That our blooms beat against the beasts we are.

And we are wishing you high ground. Clear air. Your signs.

Love,

The Waccamites