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Brown-Eyed Susans

By Brett Glasscock

Editor's Note: Due to the formatting of this work, it is best viewed on desktop.

Ahead and years

Before us

ATVs or park vehicles

Trod and cracked

Central Texas soil,

More rock than anything,

Into something like gravel into something

Like a walking path.

No, paths: two parallel, uttering ahead of us.

On either side,

A paroxysm of yellow,

Searing. The flowers, thousands,

A legion,

At least—

Yellow irises black pupils they stared.

Like weeds, they grew in armies.

Like weeds, deserters grew

Into stones.

This isn’t

An illwritten metaphor;

Their roots cracked the rocks,

And their eyes drank the sun

And their yellow, so searing,

I can only touch it

With mixed metaphor.


Brett Glasscock is an emerging queer writer living and working in Austin, Texas. His work has previously appeared in Echo and Naked Cat. To pay the bills, he works an administrative job at the University of Texas, where he has only kind of put his Bachelor's in Rhetoric/Writing to use. All pieces are co-written by his three cats. You can find him on Twitter.


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