Matthew Bruce Harrison’s writing can be found in West Branch, Yemassee, Carolina Quarterly, Texas Review, Adroit Journal, Cincinnati Review, Bayou, Gargoyle and Permafrost, among others. His poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart and for the Best of the Net Anthology, and his fiction has been nominated for the storySouth Million Writers Award and was a finalist for the Mid-American Review Sherwood Anderson Fiction Prize. Originally from Georgia, he now lives and teaches in Minnesota.
It is pouring somewhere in the universe and there is a reason why wine is used for communion. You kill the bottle to fall away like a New Year cork that dissolves in garden mint. Or body emptied so transported to a dark landfill outside the city they say never sleeps, lying in cool soil, in shards of moon and plastic parts with everybody else’s unexceptional dreams of a cathedral arch lighting the critically acclaimed last show of the final season, of a star worthy of all stars and the quiet river stirring constellations or bodies in hot beds who drink the sweat of the city evaporated into breath, who hear the ovation and fizzle off to sleep hoping it is nothing, it is only the long hoped for rainstorm with an extra- terrestrial name.