wildscape. literary journal

Infinite Scroll
by Polly Conway

The algorithm keeps showing me Jessie Buckley’s Hamnet scream, juxtaposed with hot scenes from Heated Rivalry. Where do my true interests lie? Underwater, in a single jellyfish string tangled up in itself. Each cord a nematocyst, tight with venom. When we went to Asilomar, the sand was overwhelmed with velella velella. By-the-wind sailors. Sea raft. Purple sail. Little drifters. I made that last one up. Each individual is a colony. One is not one but many. The dead crunch beneath my feet, parched of blue but their translucent sails still carry a history of indigo. At the whim of the winds. My mother-in-law’s gonna take me to a herring spawn on Vancouver Island, where the males’ milt turns the water turquoise. Yeah, they jizz so much that the water changes color. Sorry, babes, this is me, and my algorithm that repeats and repeats: inert pink invertebrates, hot rotting mola mola with their pitted cavern eyes, the briny stink of slack water, lugworms turning sand once again into shit. All my loved ones teeter on the brink of becoming ghosts. Wait. Worry. Wait. Watch the water turn milky, transform as needed. 

Loinnir
by Polly Conway

Speaking of plans, I grew up
hearing a lot about God’s. 
Didn’t buy it. Harder to shake, though,
Is everything happens for a reason, 
easy to fall back on when the shit 
goes down, when the scans come back
with more white spots. 

How do I describe
my parents staying alive day after day? 
A blessing, a backyard rose, a scatter 
my ashes at home, that’s where I want to be. 

How do I describe how gentle my husband is
when he pets the cat, who loves him more than me. 
Moth, professor beard, physics book. Pray for him,
please. 

Pluck pointy hairs from my upper lip, 
think about maybe doing yoga. This is how days 
fly by. God’s plan enacted. 

Agira Road
by Polly Conway

The mirror outside my room rattles. Snow covers the eaves. Two paper doves are taped to the upstairs window. Moss on roof. Vert de vessie. The naked tree is about to bloom; rigid packed florets point skyward. Sepal: the outer parts of the flower that enclose the developing bud. Segue: I’m stupid. Talk amongst yourselves. The empty hummingbird feeder is the old school kind, red hibiscus with yellow middles. Juvenile, middles, and yet here I am, saying more words. For example: How long can I wait before I get more Botox/anyone who says they haven’t drunk that Kool-Aid red feeder liquid is a liar. Does the child in you ever still say “dranken?” A towering bush presents clusters of those black pellety berries that pretend-fueled my dad’s backyard fishing boat. Fuck, I’m flailing. Find a comeback. Stamen: the pollen-producing part of the flower. Fat droplets hang from branches, precarious. Two trees overlap each other, a literal embrace. Know this, readers: I’m in trouble at work for not finishing two trainings. My vintage avocado mug watercolor is all out of whack. Crystal’s pug goes batshit when horses appear on TV. The stigma is the part of the pistil where pollen germinates. I can’t stop stockpiling snacks even though I don’t get hungry anymore. Do you know that feeling? Of longing for an easy future. Wanting to be ready for any outcome.  

about the author // Polly Conway