Rachel Bunting was born and raised in Southern New Jersey, but has slept next to a fountain in Bruges, on the lawn of a castle in Heidelberg, under the span of a bridge in Amsterdam, and in a very comfortable chair in Norman Mailer’s living room. Her next travel adventure will include not sleeping at Taqueria Cancun in San Francisco. Her poems can be found in Boxcar Poetry Review, Muzzle Magazine and Weave.
I’d been thinking about leaving. I’d been thinking how there’s something about out here. Before long it’s a new January and you’re hungover with a heartache for a man you won’t see for several years until he pops up on that very popular, critically-acclaimed sitcom with that actress you learned to like, then hate, then feign indifference abou
The leak in your breathing/ tube makes a cartoon squeak./ It takes two nurses, silent/ as nuns, to place you/ in my arms...
If I have already/ gone insane/ but I want to get/ crazier yet,/ what’s my move?/ Go outsane?
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