12/4/2022 Poetry By Alex Tretbar Christian Collins CC
Passengers If anything, life’s too long, like the words of someone on a plane who never knows when to shut up, and all you want to do is watch your city disappear in clouds, be replaced by blue and black, because now it’s night, now you are all that’s awake except for the pilot, whose presence you begin to doubt, for you’ve never seen these patterns of star before, and now, if anything, life’s too short, like the words of someone on a plane who never knows when to wake up, because all you want to do is tell them about the stars. What an Angel Said after Austin T. Holland You better believe it, kid: the arkless sea is also a kind of ark. My grief has endless credit but I blew it all on craps and now my eyes lack coins. I never understood whether heaven-sent meant from or to that bright & high-rent place. Divinate me. At the bottom of every teacup (in the dregs) you’ll find a death’s-head. Tomorrow, you’ll risk laughter when I ascend the compost pile in a huff of regeneration. Next century, I am crowned with a wreath of black dove & white raven feathers. Alex Tretbar won the 2022 PEN America Prison Writing Contest in Poetry, and was a finalist for the 2021 PEN/Edward Bunker Prize in Fiction. His work appears in or is forthcoming from Southeast Review, Poetry Northwest, Snarl, Cobra Milk, INKSOUNDS, and Coal City Review. He lives in Kansas City, Missouri.
Nero Tyrel
12/8/2022 02:26:47 pm
Great stuff. Any chance we could see Alex’s “my guess is grief will haul you” published here?
Inês Marçalo
1/23/2023 02:19:16 am
Uauuu!!!! Comments are closed.
|
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
August 2024
Categories |