JOSHUA MARIE WILKINSON
FROM LIGHT BLEW OPEN THE HUTCH & A BOY SAW IT
Another snared rabbit speaks through a cut in its neck & the powder keg floats downriver, winnowing. The cream of the truck's lights moistens your knees. A big squall makes an iceblock out of you. Poison tastes of metal & banana. Coin operated phones, pinball laundry, & airport televisions welded to their seats. What of this will we remember with our hands? What tent will find you as warm night air? How many stories were you asked to bury & which ones did you bury?
His voice like a trowel into your chest, the fellow behind the bar is a skinny ghost & he has reasons to slip inside your body gently like a vulture into the ribs of a traveler. The pub smoke hammers a hole in your parts.
The punch was spiked with our own antitodes & a yellow pigeon coos & drops a note in your mitten. I am ready for things not to improve. Pictures are a requisite for memory. What the boy was made to repeat aloud had several hundred acceptable variants. The plants grew a hutch around the raccoons & the children grew a city around the hutch.