Charles Ramsay McCrory is an undergraduate English student at The University of Mississippi.
His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Amethyst Arsenic, The Coachella Review, The Cossack
and Gargoyle Magazine. He is currently a fiction staff member for The Adroit Journal.


Honesty is austere.
It wants only hard
sunlight, a spade,
turned earth with each
worm & snail accounted for.
In the morning it walks
heavy to the bank
passes the fish of the will
through its wide urethra
& lets it swim, its shadow
warping the silt.

On Whether I Sold Myself

When I accepted the offer, your dog-track winnings
for three days of my body, I took it to each prototype
our anatomies offered for the hilt: my lubed knuckle
your iliac crests I sailed for on my back, straight
and unthinking to steady my ribcage–shame sleeping
there beneath a water-bloated Highlights.

When you left I held inventory. My chest squawked
and hunted among the droppings and seeds in its cage
for fetishes tucked away: panes of wasp-red film
my baby teeth. Of course they all turned up; after all
what of myself had I sold except the act? the receipt
still drying on your tongue.

Dead Dogs

I know it's you in the Student Union
leaning against the far wall, legs open
just as I'm sure every cast-off coat and rug
on the road's shoulder is really a dead dog.

That you hide from me as you head for the door
cower under someone else's face
and clothes, doesn't change a thing
because I am thinking of dead dogs and you.

Beach Body

runoff ribs
gutter to the bent
head–black proteins
burble and gush
eyeholes ditches
kids kicked tide
a door into
grit skin slick
with jellyfish
kiss it clean
breach the teeth-
gates to tap
aquifers beneath
tilt its frame
and it saves rain-
water in its hip

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