Blackbox manifold

Issue 15: Adam Day


Burrower, grub-worm, Mister, it rains

and the wet animals crawl the face

of the earth. This is the animal that lives

at the base of the throat, behind

a mouth that cannot shape words.

Someone is heaving at the kitchen door –

he has lost his beard and jowls. 

Somewhere, sheet-tangled legs, the pink

twist of flesh birthing blackness, licked –

the tickling fingers unfolding, the fly-

twitched feet. A door slams, one lung

collapsed like a forest of fallen trees. 

It’s a stone in the shoe. The plump

and split lips. The odor of swollen

floorboards – the sad attic’s ceiling

of insects. Mister, it’s she.   



Whose questions

are these? There is

an event, submerged.

The street

is a street in _____. A set

of actions is in play

here. Specific

actions. There is a

principle player

in danger. Precise

inexactitudes. But

in a way that one

enjoys. And pathos.

Surprising pathos.

There is a real population

around a car.

An act of violence

that does not

matter. But is

essential. A player

at work making nothing

happen. The story

interrogates him.

Adam Day is the author of Model of a City in Civil War (Sarabande Books, April 2015), as well as the recipient of a 2010 Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship for Badger, Apocrypha, and of a 2011 PEN Emerging Writers Award. His work has appeared in Poetry London, Kenyon Review, Poetry Ireland, American Poetry Review, Stand, Iowa Review, London Magazine, and elsewhere. He directs the Baltic Writing Residency in Latvia, Scotland, and Bernheim Forest.