Zac breaks with spring —Matthew Schnirman
The duffs of pallbearers; a mound
of flowers pearled over; prayers heard
through a dog’s black ear.
Above the Florida-Georgia line, wasps
swarmed pews of sweet peaches. Lost,
I studied the nexus of Father, Son
and Holy Shit. (It goes on, just sayin).
Lord, even the priest drank after sermon.
Along a road, I traced spring’s torso,
like a virgin.
I begged and petted for one more day
before I shot the mask from the horse’s face
and stole apart, hopped up on glass,
along with the bottom half of his ass-piece.
I pulled over to ask a mechanic: Tell me the truth.
Does this song lead to Duluth
or back to water?
He said, Your dinero’s no good. It was lights out. Midnight
crept up the highway like
a creature in a glade, shining
like a bruise a haymaker makes; a voice cracking;
the Nile flooding every region.
Time had proven inopportune—a game of telephone
with Persephone and her drastic tone
of spring.
This hell-and-back; this up-and-down abyss
where in it I found
not a single facsimile.
David Axelrod
Devon Balwit
Hugh Behm-Steinberg
Erika Brumett
Jennifer Bullis
Lauren Camp
Greg Casale
Laura Da'
Denise Duhamel
Alejandro Escudé
Jeff Ewing
Michael Hettich
Dennis Hinrichsen
Safia Jama
Eleanor Kedney
Kasandra Larsen
Patrick T. Reardon
Matthew Schnirman
Maureen Seaton
Jeffrey Skinner
J.R. Solonche
Carolyn Williams-Noren
