The McKinley Review Magazine

Where it counts

By: David Bankson | Posted on: July 2018 



Lips part,

eyes open,

pulse quickens.



of my own forgetfulness,

I plot chemical reactions

like red lines on a Rand-Mcnally map.




Not far from her head, the glass case

holding her


there,               delaying


the human tissue

that gets moved around —

faces,     tendons,  bones, skin


(nuzzles at the mind)


Pictures of organ systems

neatly packed

into organ -isms


to meet their function.




A schoolyard filled

with a number of



overflows the frame,


scripts scotch taped to our backs.


Nostalgia is green,

with a throat and crown

of changeable colors,

lilac and red.


The reverse is the fact:


The number may be hanged,

but not be crowned.




A man who has swallowed enough

paper dropped into the ditch and lay still


then floats a tangerine slice

on the blocks of ice.


A droplet of spray

poises for a moment

on the crest of a wave.


Dusty paths lined

with flickering orange lanterns led us

to be afraid

of this thin drink.


David Bankson lives in Texas. He was finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith of Prose and Poem, and his poetry and micro-fiction can be found in concis, (b)oink, Thank You for Swallowing, Artifact Nouveau, et al.