by Justin Clark
tell me. what’s the warmth of a lover to den kalten händen des todes
if not the origin of decaying axes? highways of one way traffic.
an entire life’s worth of sweat and blood wiped from our bodies
all at once; a lone wind embracing strange melody, your love.
an axe to the ground as though the sun were falling. the fireflies
ignite then fade. i follow the flashes until i am a pilgrim of ash
then those monsters peopling the army behind our eyes meet
eyes just as our screams do, intermingling. petals within petals
within petals. even the beautiful can be born amid carnage.
and it’s hard not to let savage weeds grow beneath my feet.
pollen can burn lungs more delicately than a pipe’s smoke.
the window is open. we stick our inner tongues out to catch
what’s left of the world. on a day like this even bone can pop
like corn in a skillet. we entangle until breaking into one.
the way carp are finally yin and yang only after being diced
and kept in the crane’s stomach: raw and turned inside out.
Justin Clark (he/him) is a father and poet living in Indiana. He has an Associate of Science in History and an Associate of Arts in Philosophy. His work has been featured in Hobart After Dark, The Tecumseh Review, Southchild Lit, Interstellar, and Zero Readers Review. He can be found on Twitter @PrognatusD.
Emerge Literary Journal 