two poems


I’m starting to think we have everything we need. 

One of the bakers in our neighborhood offered us free baguettes as they were closing. I took as many as I could carry. We walked the three blocks north to the library, up past the elementary school and the community garden. I would’ve stopped to pick flowers but my arms were full. And we shared the bread with all our librarian friends. And by the time we were done, the sun was still glowing. You make Chicago a small town. You make our apartment a painted lady. You make me the sort of person who talks to bakers handing out bread in the street. 

Tennessee Law SB3 

I text Dev on the day I see the news. We like to keep it light and fruity, him & I. So I say it looks like you’ve got to serve cunt in the orchestra now, and we send each other drag race gifs back and forth. We think it would be so so funny if he got arrested for playing the accordion in Memphis while wearing pants. We think it’s funny because we don’t want to think too hard about it.

At night my partner holds my arms for ten whole minutes before I lather in the drugs and turn myself into a temporary biohazard. I layer on sweatshirts so that I can still lay next to him. I’ve got to wake up early tomorrow, I tell him. I’m checking out some apartments up here for an old friend of mine.

For now, Dev plays accordion and I apartment hunt for him.

One of these days nobody is going to have to be afraid anymore.


Morris McLennan is a writer from Chicago, Illinois. His plays have been workshopped with the support of DePaul University and Shattered Globe Theater. He has a BFA in Playwriting from DePaul University, where he was the recipient of the Zach Helm Endowed Playwriting Scholarship and the Bundschu Award. His writing has been published by various journals and magazines, including Green World Alliance and Insider. Currently, he interns for Fruit Bat Press while working on his upcoming play, debut novel, and his Chicago restaurant review zine series.