Categories

archive Block
This is example content. Double-click here and select a page to create an index of your own content. Learn more.


Authors

archive Block
This is example content. Double-click here and select a page to create an index of your own content. Learn more.

Poetry: Eve Marie Strillacci

witchlight_mknapp.jpg

In the Lightning Fields

You and I narrow into the parking lot,

rain stammering against the windshield.

It's my birthday, why I drove us back

to your house and we played cards

in your high school bedroom before dinner,

fried cod and greens, beers in blue bottles

that looked like slate sidewalks wetted

in summer storms, looked like your eyes,

gunmetal and thunderstruck, but it makes no

difference. You're into guys; you like their

faces and tan forearms, marijuana

and beard burn and dick, and I want

muscle, crave bulk, the strength that slips

from your shoulders no matter how

much you eat. This not the story it sounds

like. Yes, we are trapped in my car

together and yes, midnight kicked her

long legs up between the seats, knees

gone scabby with stars, but we don't

join her in the backseat, don't fumble

in and apart, don't make our own weather,

fog furring the glass as we exercise

against each others' mouths, buzzed lips,

at last. I don't wish that, just to be clear.

I'm waiting for something else, something

beyond the lightning fields, someone forged

and mountainous, to roll me, to plunder.

The electricity charging the air is real—

I could radio you. You could send back sparks,

indulge the kinetic impulse of the heart,

but the lightning strikes here, there, so close.

All rights reserved to Eve Marie Strillacci

Ilustrated by Mercedes Knapp

Poetry: Travis Brown

Poetry: Dustin Luke Nelson

0