Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Twenty-one Winter 2009 |
Gary, Indiana Matt Gillespie Iron bled to puddles, beams sublimed to fumes; Smelted metal, exploded ore; Grey specter near a propane lake. Rusted and oxidized. The gale-force winds of progress Out here, even the Indians lived in pre-fab titanium teepees, so welcome to the steel plant that tipped over the edge of the wide, flat world. This mediocre metropolis, rising in moderate splendor above the great flat parking lot of the West. And now, your body, abandoned beneath a roto-tiller that pulls open the fields outside Muncie, aerated clumps of dirt spewed out and forgotten beneath wheat shafts that reach up towards the sun. Don’t you remember when the snow fell outside me, caked thick over streetlamps, and made them stars set warm and blue against the purple February sky? |
About Matt Gillespie |