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Self-Help Picture Book

By Dylan Buckser Shulz

            Lately I’ve been lying 

on lawns, pulling up thoughts 

by their throats like turnips. 

Chewing loudly. It’s called 

liberty. You ought to have 

some.       Yesterday I saw 

a huddle of fuzzy goslings 

and did the right thing—said 

aww. I watched a runt foal

lick its mom’s muzzle. Thorns,

eating dead sage. Are we all

just riding time until tragedy 

            strikes? Don’t think about 


            your birthday. You are born 

daily. Carry, through crowded 

rooms, a quietude in your chest

like a static charge. This will 

make you sexy yet untouchable. 

Brush your teeth at night, only. 

Soak in your natural sour when 

you wake—it’s good for your 

            inner devil. Walk 


            a skinny unmarked path 

through a wild meadow. Life will 

stand around you. Don’t check 

for ticks, but for beer glass, forsythia, 

fox tail. Lost earrings. Pale, rustling 

sky. Inhale, often. Let the world turn 

            our head on its little axis. 

Late April Diagnostics

by Dylan Buckser Shulz


Shadows of ivy are blooming 

in the small wood boathouse 

stranded by a shallow pond.

Dim pain: I mistake the fields 


between us for its units—stalks 

and people swaying with their 

hair bundled by rain, scattering 

like kernels of light. Fetch the eyes 


of a geologist who, for years, has 

charted the drift of a glacial colony. 

Note his irises, themselves noticing 

no change. See, now, the sore flight 


of a wan dove. In any bird’s final 

takeoff—the animal offbeat, twitching,

like a defibrillated heart, toward the ether

—is a fight for natural freedom. To be 


a student of light: looking east 

from a hill at dusk, the next blue peak

appears, through the filmy mid-spring 

squall, like a whale’s grooved back. 


Along its spine the nearly budded trees 

seem barnacles, soaking drizzle. These, 

the shifts and glooms I must memorize. 

Your gaze invents me, how sunrays 


lay down black blossoms from all the ivy 

in their way. The prong of a half-dead leaflet 

reaches, unnoticed, through the oak frame. 

Gold tinges it. I look back at you and wonder 


where else have I ever been.

Click to see Dylan’s work in our Fall ‘23 and Spring ‘24 issues