Steven Searcy

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The Bread

The bread is
always on the table,
always fresh,
always within reach.

But we pound our fists, petulant,
demanding something different.
We scowl and pout.

Or worse, we fold our hands and lie
that we aren’t hungry,
that we don’t want anything, smiling
to silence the incessant gnawing in our guts.

“The Bread,” read by Steven Searcy.

Following Vultures

I completed
the loop down the hill and
along the creek but

I could not find
what all the black vultures
are circling for.

And now I must
consider why I am not so
diligent to search

for the sick and
dying things in some corner
of my own chest.

“Following Vultures,” read by Steven Searcy.


That’s me—that panicked fly
flailing against the bathroom window,
helplessly zizzing in a frantic attempt
to get back to where
I belong.

You would be happy
to help me get free—
you would scoop me into your hand
and fling me gently past all the screens and panes
into the fresh, open air,

if only I would stop
and let you catch me.

“Fly,” read by Steven Searcy.

Steven Searcy lives with his wife and three sons in Atlanta, GA, where he earns a living working as an engineer in fiber optic telecommunications. His poetry has been published in Ekstasis Magazine, Reformed Journal, Fathom Magazine, and The Clayjar Review.

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Artwork: Pains et compotier aux fruits sur une table by Pable Picasso, c. 1909. Public Domain.

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