THERE HE IS
THERE HE IS
THERE HE IS
THERE HE IS


tc Wiggins

HEADER PHOTO: Exuma II, Exuma © Mercury Records, 1970
poetry, may 24









Walking up the stairs uncovered
where skin should be. You don’t know
what’s worse: the fact he’s still a man
or the fact he doesn’t know that yet.
There’s only a bird flying around. Singing,
no—but not speaking either. The sound
of laughter and galloping on both sides of you
but that’s not right. He’s getting closer.
He’s starting to feel it but he still doesn’t see you,
doesn’t know the words. A second bird begins flying up
then a third and fourth follow. You can’t find
the crowd or the horses but you feel their intensity
on the floor. Getting closer. The man mouthing
without language. That he sees you by his reaching.
That he wants to know why. Flocks falling
from the sky, reminding us. One still sitting
in the carnage, chirping their names. If anyone’s
still there. Pinching himself with his beak
as more continue to come down.
The vibration in your hands not your own.
You found them sticking up from the dirt
like spoils of a long-forgotten garden.
The man eye level. Close enough to feel
him not breathing. Enough to see the scars
pecked across the flesh. Enough to think
he’s not there.










AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO


tc Wiggins is an African American poet residing in Cincinnati, Ohio who has been writing since the August of 2022. His favorite writers and inspirations are Linda Gregg, Richard Siken, and Ada Limón. His hobbies include: reading and writing poetry, birdwatching, and playing Pokemon by himself. If you cannot tell yet, tc suffers from chronic (if not terminal) boredom. You should send him poems, preferably your own. He would love to read them, and perhaps even offer you feedback if you’re looking for that. His Instagram handle is scaringthemuse.

Wiggins’ poem, “coolmathgames” previously appeared in Small World City: Issue 02.
























THERE HE IS
THERE HE IS
THERE HE IS
THERE HE IS


tc Wiggins
HEADER PHOTO: Exuma II, Exuma © Mercury Records, 1970
poetry, may 24









Walking up the stairs uncovered
where skin should be. You don’t know
what’s worse: the fact he’s still a man
or the fact he doesn’t know that yet.
There’s only a bird flying around. Singing,
no—but not speaking either. The sound
of laughter and galloping on both sides of you
but that’s not right. He’s getting closer.
He’s starting to feel it but he still doesn’t see you,
doesn’t know the words. A second bird begins flying up
then a third and fourth follow. You can’t find
the crowd or the horses but you feel their intensity
on the floor. Getting closer. The man mouthing
without language. That he sees you by his reaching.
That he wants to know why. Flocks falling
from the sky, reminding us. One still sitting
in the carnage, chirping their names. If anyone’s
still there. Pinching himself with his beak
as more continue to come down.
The vibration in your hands not your own.
You found them sticking up from the dirt
like spoils of a long-forgotten garden.
The man eye level. Close enough to feel
him not breathing. Enough to see the scars
pecked across the flesh. Enough to think
he’s not there.






AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO


tc Wiggins is an African American poet residing in Cincinnati, Ohio who has been writing since the August of 2022. His favorite writers and inspirations are Linda Gregg, Richard Siken, and Ada Limón. His hobbies include: reading and writing poetry, birdwatching, and playing Pokemon by himself. If you cannot tell yet, tc suffers from chronic (if not terminal) boredom. You should send him poems, preferably your own. He would love to read them, and perhaps even offer you feedback if you’re looking for that. His Instagram handle is scaringthemuse.

Wiggins’ poem, “coolmathgames” previously appeared in Small World City: Issue 02.
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