Zinger by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The clavicle broke like sudden news
verandas constructed out of stubby hitch hiker thumbs
and mouldy fence twine
so that people tumbled down stairs while others did not
a distant fan belt slapping the surface of things less known:
ketamine sales and snooker tables over for dinner
the infidelity of silkworms;
zingers one after the other like train cars
down the line
boxy and impervious, the same way an overly plump aunt may seem
when you are five;
off of mother’s milk and onto other things
women still a few years away in the carnal sense
and so you pump the legs of playground swings
so high you can feel the back of you falling off
and that feeling in your stomach as though you could be sick
at a moment but somehow never are,
letting go at the summit, trying to out jump the other boys
falling awkwardly on your shoulder in such a way
that something snaps.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a happily unmarried proud father of none. His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as Your One Phone Call, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Dead Snakes. He has an affinity for dragonflies, discount tequila, and all things sarcastic.

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