by Chris Crowder
It is the sound of two plastic
action figures clacking. It is
the sound of an actor ripping
a fake cigarette out their mouth.
It is the sound the diaphragm
vibrates among a deep hacking
cough. It is the sound of it is
the sound. It is the sound paper
sounds like. High heels on laminate.
Cartoon electrocution. Mouth
water. A fallen restaurant
plate, no applause. Good knife through bread.
It is the sound you expect from
pulling the white ring attached to
the string soldered into your sewn
back. How fast can you pick a scab.
Chris Crowder is from Flint, Michigan, and earned his MFA at the Helen Zell Writers’ Program at the University of Michigan. His debut poetry collection, The Kin of Nakedness, will be published by Four Way Books in 2026. Managing Editor for The Adroit Journal, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Rumpus, The Georgia Review, Best New Poets, TriQuarterly, Shenandoah, Indiana Review, Witness, the VS podcast, and elsewhere. chriscrowderwrites.com