Golf Ball

Featuring Award Winning Poet Megan Merchant

Golf Ball Cover
The award-winning poet Megan Merchant joins us for this week’s EB workshop. Megan was the winner of the 2017 Cog Literary Award and is a multi-year Pushcart Prize nominee. We tee up the Golf Ball EB Session in this episode. Megan shares valuable stories about her development as a writer in this episode. Her first children’s book, These Words I Shaped for You, is now available with Penguin Random House!

Megan Merchant

Megan Merchant lives in the tall pines of Prescott, Arizona where she spends her days exploring, drinking too much coffee and avoiding the laundry.

Her poems and translations have appeared in publications including Rattle, Diode, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, The Atlanta Review, Kennesaw Review, Margie, International Poetry Review, and more. She holds a MFA degree from UNLV and was the winner of the 2017 Beullah Rose Poetry Prize, the 2016-2017 Cog Literary Award and the Las Vegas Poets Prize, She is a multi-year Pushcart Prize nominee.

She is an editor at the Comstock Review, and the author of four chapbooks. Her first full-length collection, Gravel Ghosts, is currently available through Glass Lyre Press and was awarded the 2016 Best Book Award. Her second full-length poetry collection, The Dark’s Humming, won the 2015 Lyrebird Award and is also available with Glass Lyre Press.

Her first children’s book, These Words I Shaped for You, is now available with Penguin Random House.

You can find her on Twitter: @meganamerchant.


I am told the dream can only be
interpreted by the dreamer.

But my child and I have the same one.

He is drowning. I see him lumped—a
wavy tuft on the bottom.

I ask the nearest man, capable of holding
his breath, to dive in after. Any air I
catch is sharp with rust.

When he emerges, I press on his chest
until a rib cracks

but wake before his lungs can gasp and
heart rhythm.

When he wakes, he thanks me for being
the falcon who broke the surface to grip him,

while also the one
holding space for his return.

He remembers slipping down.

I remember that waiting is
also an anticipation of grief.


An hour before the light will rise
like an alarm of fur

along morning’s spine—he disappears.

Comes back into view padding
down the hall,

glancing sidelong at my door,
thanking me for not scratching him with my claws.