Understory, Fall 2026—Issue I (Digital Edition)

June 5th 

by Sebastian Ellios

Driving up I-95, I forgot your birthday this year. 8 hours towards the possibility of someone new. 

bumper-to-bumper outside Fredericksburg empty stretches before Baltimore 

I had all the time 

to think of you. 

But, I forgot your birthday. 

This came 6 days later.

Diamond ® 

I. 

My candle burnt out. 

The wick lit and died. Expired and perished. I lit match again. In vain i lit match. After match. Piled inside candle. Sulfur tip blackened. Acrid sulfur floating into lungs, as i stand looking into candle jar. Pool of wax. Small stream of wax trickles from sulfur tips. Fresh, pale wood. Virgin wood with sulfur tips. 

II. 

Match lit. Wick expired. I plunge flame into pile of virgin wood with tainted tips. Flame eats at virgin wood. Touches untouched. Devours the clean. Pile inside candle jar is caught. Small pile. Pickup sticks i let unlit match fall in. Evergreen sulfur tip near pile. Catch evergreen. Burn pine pile. Sizzle. Spark. Flame afresh. 

Match after match. Wick buried under pine pile. Candle jar slowly browns as flame caresses its cell. Climbing in hopes of release. Flame does not dance. No rhythmic flame. Blinking flame. Undulating flame. Livid flame. Living flame. Short of breath flame. Fifty match flame. Captive, climbing flame. Fraction flame. 

Charred wood buried in wax it melted. No smell but burning. Beautiful, orange wax buried under charred wood and sulfur tips. Scent sees no escape. 

III. 

Black-mouthed candle jar sits smoking on the windowsill. Forest. Evergreens crumble at slight touch. Dead forest of black-mouthed, smoking candle jar. Wax drowned sulfur tips never ignited. Smoke of forest, last life of forest runs with wind. Smoke signal of dead wick. Expired and perished. 

Black-mouthed, smoking candle jar reigning from windowsill. I fill you with cool water. Dead forest drowns. Jagged candle jar breaks in my hands. Pine pile and sulfur tips. Fall to the floor.

…expanding upon the ideations of Adam Smith & Henry Ford 

I tire of talking. Nothing is said. 

We repeat topics with better titles until they become white noise. 

Static for us to get high on, bringing us dreams of a better world. 

Delusions so vivid and a high so pronounced we mistake them for action. 

We lace up and stretch to sit down– to stay down. 

We think ourselves agents of progress. more moral, more well informed. Better than our parents. We are but spendthrifts when currency has been rebranded as attention. When revolutionary ideas are redesigned with such efficiency they reach v.5 before the Co-opt™ is noticed. But oh!- how sleek. how green. 

The true product- idleness. 

Lifestyles manufactured along automated assembly lines. Expensive. Defective. Planned obsolescence. Destined to be discarded for the next oh!- how retro. vintage, yet modern. The landfill’s overflown. The ocean will suffice. The ocean’s overflown. The land will suffice. The land is full. The fields flood or burn or… The conveyor belt churns on. We pile, and pile on. Then flee in. Into 4 stories. 24 stories. 48 stories. oh!- how high. Stories in space, of space. Yes, tell us stories of space… space for fun space for future space for food space for produce, to produce, produce, produce. We learned how to do it better this time. We’ll do Better™ this time.

if you know where to look 

poetry is the door // closing softly after the last guest 

the circle of six // heart-shaped balloons 

gathered ‘round the ceiling fan // safe in its iron cage 

chanting ‘round a bonfire // they rustle ever so 

but make no attempt // to abandon their position. 

poetry is the pushup bra // paired with the ‘BULLSHIT’ 

belt buckle // an estate sale prize 

the dead man’s Jordans // exactly my size 

I will know what it’s like // to walk in his shoes // once we’ve gone some places.

poetry is the thread // stitching, stitching, stitching

screen doors don’t slam 

I. 

Folks time street crossing 

With my trunk’s passing shadow A community 

II. 

A place with backgates 

Thrown bicycles in the yard Back tires still spinning 

III. 

Just park on the lawn 

Crowded driveway, flattened grass A warm open door 

IV. 

The porches resting 

Under the rusting tables 

The pitcher sweats down 

V. 

Stirring the sweet tea 

Cups on an overturned crate The stoop fit to burst 

VI. 

Screen door caught halfway What’s in a home that drawls, slows? Screen doors crawl to close.

Sebastian lives in Durham, NC and can't help but write poetry. As the world is singing, falling apart, or both simultaneously, the poems help him weather it. A VONA & Abode Press alum, he’s been featured in Fruitslice, Voicemail Poems, and Callaloo among others. You can find more of his work at sebastianellios.com.