DOWN

by Matthew Murrey

Some nights I think, 

“What a wretched day. 
Tomorrow has to be 
better.” In the morning I 
ride that hope. How it lifts 
up from this bitter earth.
Maybe food will get through.
Maybe safe walls will shelter 
the terrified and displaced. 
Maybe missiles will stay 
stowed in their crates.
 
How it leaves the ground. 
How wide the wingspan is.
How I watch knowing this 
—like so much captured 
footage these days—
does not end well. 
It climbs, then does not. 
Nose up, it goes down, 
more glide than plunge, 
until it disappears among 
low buildings on the ground.
 
A huge billow of fire 
and black smoke tells me 
more than I want to know.

Matthew Murrey is the author of Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019) and the forthcoming collection Little Joy (Cornerstone Press, 2026). Recent poems are in Dissident Voice, One, Anthropocene, and elsewhere. He was a public school librarian for more than 20 years and lives in Urbana, IL with his partner. He can be found on Bluesky and Instagram under the handle @mytwords.

THE BEST KITCHEN

by Matthew Murrey

has stains on the backsplash,

a bag of chips on the counter, 
a beer can from the night before, 
a toaster with one slot that works,
a light switch lightly smudged,
one plant too big for the sill,
a cabinet door that will not close,
a fruit bowl with a bruised banana,

a compost bin a bit too full,

chairs hung with coats and shirts,
half a bottle of Spanish wine, 
a clock on the wall running slow, 
a clock-radio shining red time,
a charger for your phone and mine,
a stove with two black iron pans,
a wall with photos and faded cards,
a couple of mismatched coffee cups,
a table with worn veneer where 
no one’s ever sat with diamonds
shining on a cross or shown  
such straight and stainless teeth 
in a smile so forced and white.

Matthew Murrey is the author of Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019) and the forthcoming collection, Little Joy (Cornerstone Press, 2026). Recent poems can be found in Roanoke Review, ballast, HAD, and elsewhere. He was a school librarian for 21 years, and lives in Urbana, IL with his partner. He can be found on Twitter, Instagram and Bluesky under the handle @mytwords.

HUMANITARIAN PAUSE

by Matthew Murrey

“Two Turkeys ‘Liberty’ and ‘Bell’ Pardoned by Biden” —VOA, November 20, 2023

For Thanksgiving week, forty-six million, 

while the sweep of a year will reap 

over four times as many, but not these two. 
 
They won the lottery of born 
right time, right place: were given room 

to roam, good food, and the light of the sun.

 
Their beaks and toes weren’t scissored, clipped; 
they weren’t warehoused for a life of stink and filth.
They are the inverse of scapegoats: suffer liberty 
and tender, attentive care to cover for the rest—
multitudes hoisted and hacked, gutted and wrapped. 
 
Thankful at the table, see and smell the golden, 
roasted bird—headless, plucked, and stuffed—
and give thanks for the generous spread of luck:
you here, and not there. Surely that rings a bell.

 
Matthew Murrey is the author of the poetry collection Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019). He's published widely, most recently in The Dodge, Bear Review, and Redheaded Stepchild. He was a public school librarian for 21 years, and lives in Urbana, IL with his partner. He can be found on Instagram, Twitter/X and Bluesky under the handle @mytwords.