Poetry By Taylor Swanner

Thomas and Dianne Jones CC




                                                                                                       i wish i were mt. zion. rd.

when my grandfather died, he came back as a sound. he came back as a vinyl record spinning comes back as a planet. dark and spherical, edged with wrinkles and worry. he came back as a chess board. he came back as the amber scent of bourbon rimming glass cups under queen-size beds. meanwhile, the record was curving under the needle, the child on the living room couch clutched with bi-panic, numb and vacant. and when the record stopped and impaled itself with its own needle point arm, the child sank into the moss cushions and someone else cried into their daughter's salsa bowl. that’s the one my grandfather sings to because it’s so vital. you read. and the piano keys come back like saturn’s rings.




Taylor Swanner is a writer from the bluegrass state who now resides in Florida, where summer is cruel and eternal. She writes about women’s health, body horror, unrequited love, and the month of October. Her writing has appeared in FGCU’s literary journal: the Mangrove Review.