Poetry by Tom Travers



II. Carolina Reaper Honey

We missed the turning for the nature reserve & slipped through a break in the dunes (like wasps at a fete) entering a whiteness that swarmed desolate, horseflies cascaded through the heat, their jaws like pressure gauges (whale fat blazes a cocoon in the firmament) Gus would have gotten high too, somewhere along the Delaware coast, a bleached snarl down the Atlantic’s stomach (the swamp: towards a theory of the black box) but maybe the shoreline was lunar after all, robotics students down wind, drones spiralling loose on the slipstream of history (cut-and-paste black holes). A belated honeymoon, trailing the ghost of Dos Passos around Ocean City, in the oil smears of last light, apartment blocks glare with all the positivity of a creature’s first nightmare (frantic lights-out prose) days nailed to sour mash & we pulled off the highway for flat bottom peaches (reader, she said now to globes of furry American nectar) & bought Carolina Reaper honey for the hard-ons: there was something about getting dick in a motel that always made you so wet you said.


III. Tamiflu

American Cantos! Ha, no fooling you with a mendicant’s bazaar, language bootlegged out of the CVS on the corner of the Boston Post Road, monochrome angels drinking off personality in torrents, out on the Hutch, lateness howls a mercy in our ears & Ike himself slides in between us, miraculous at this thief hour, eye sockets weeping acid & wisdom. The car streaks beneath us into midnight’s lair, jack-o-lanterns burn mutinously on porches, we thought, a communism so delicious it hurts. Starlings gather in the trees outside yr parent’s house, but they’re just the veined wisps of leaves shivering to some weird nocturne, the scalped heads constitutive of the new world. Nature is unquiet. Darkness seethes with the drone-crackle of cicadas returning Anne Bradstreet to her soda pop massacres & morning glooms out of the nowhere we tilt towards. Then it is us, again, sober as the republic, riding with yr mom to White Plains hospital, December 24, 2016, insurance expired & lice jittery on penicillin.


IV. Sheldrake Reservoir

From the veranda Sheldrake Reservoir forms a landscape where labour isn’t even disavowed. Geese paddle in the drifting maw of summer, framed by an arched trellis where yr sister wed, light pooling in the shape of a mollusc swing. Yr dad, shirtless (an atonal pastoralist) throws medium on the pictorial plane, a prospect scooped into solemn horseshoe crab shells, like the coyote stunned on the driveway, that first summer, an angelus of fur that cuts irrationally from the catastrophe encompassing out there to the glow stutter of fireflies in the yard, dusk washes us mellow, our heads scatter like the debris of science stuck in tar for posterity. In yr room you showed me the poster you had designed for Occupy White Plains, black forms on an ashen white background, struck in militant rest. A disappointment, if I remember right, an exodus without the tribe. A rusted weathervane hulks out of the foliage & marks the trail down towards the water, an instrument that you found on the side of the road no doubt, but for now let’s say it came with yr mom’s family as they sped out of Georgia: shrieks rise off the reservoir like thin plumes of a century of hope. Even the undergrowth speaks with the cadence of an erratic vitalism & shadows float across the lawn, airborne monks stoned on ‘holey’ nectar; but maybe that was just yr dad at work in his studio. La Lotta Continua.



Tom Travers is completing a PhD on Don DeLillo and Capital in the department of English and Humanities at Birkbeck, University of London.
January 16, 2019

New Mexican Postcards by Tom Travers

Poetry by Tom Travers
January 9, 2019

I Am Ash on Wednesdays by Sogol Sur

Poetry by Sogol Sur
January 3, 2019

Poetry by Rachel Burns

Wildfowl on the Water, July, and A Game of Chess
December 27, 2018

Height of Nonsense by Al McClimens

Poetry by Al McClimens
November 28, 2018

Poetry by E.A.M. Harris

  Courtesy of Doors and Meetings Not Planned
November 21, 2018

It Runs Deeply by Annie Carter

Poetry by Annie Carter
November 8, 2018

November Reads

Long winter nights = more reading time (for me, at least). Here are some suggestions from the MIROnline Team on how to spend it. We hope you enjoy them. – James
November 5, 2018

Pathogen by Graeme K Talboys

Short Fiction by  Graeme K Talboys
October 29, 2018

Quantum of Love by Gilli Fryzer

Short Fiction by  Gilli Fryzer
October 22, 2018

The Trial of Shelton Mathis by Wes Brown

Short Fiction by  Wes Brown
October 18, 2018

MIRLive: The Mechanics Institute Review special!

Elinor Johns rounds up MIRLive.
October 15, 2018

Reconciliation by Ben O’Hara

Short Fiction by Ben O’Hara
October 12, 2018

The Lobster Boat by Tamar Hodes

Short fiction by Tamar Hodes
October 10, 2018
Peach Animal The Bees Macro Insect Nature

Poetry by Anthony Caleshu

  I AM THIRSTY and because I am thirsty I need to drink before I can continue blowing your mind. The knowledge you once had about your own imagination required an alarm system with a direct line to the police. The peach you’re eating is so sweet, no wonder it’s […]
October 8, 2018
Sheet-music Piano Stool Piano Oak Flooring

When the Universe Listens by Alison Theresa Gibson

Short Fiction by Alison Theresa Gibson
October 5, 2018

The Last Lunch by Jude Cook

Short Fiction by Jude Cook
October 1, 2018

Dream Clips of the Archons by Paul Green

Opening sequences from an evolving narrative by  Paul Green
September 28, 2018

Patient X and Patient Y by John O’Donoghue

A Case Study by  John O’Donoghue
September 26, 2018

MIR15 Launch Party Photos

MIR15 is out in the world! Buy your copy here! We had a great time at the launch and hope you did too.
September 24, 2018

The Head of the End of the World by Melaina Barnes

Short Fiction by Melaina Barnes. The Head of the End of the World was shortlisted for MIR15.