Rainbows in a puddle reflect the triangle over Kenmore.
I took a shower with a boy, we poured
parabens through our threads. In some places
the tap water catches. The town with a fire
underneath—most hair has that underglimmer.
Most chalk advertises in two colors on a black skin.
Our rotating tap list serves slicks & sheens,
then we boycott breast milk, or. Or pipes
that will outlive the tribes on the plains. Those shitwits
use horses, get sick from civilized gifts—
our flat, neoliberal stomachs are heartier.
Some of us still lie supine at night, but I?
Someday in that pine forest as roots. Until pipes.
In case of pipes, no roots. The topography of here
rows of udder structures on a flat abdomen
of rock. But how shiny the hair! Directions:
drink this dark rainbow your parents gave,
their parents gave, laced with Paracetamol. Laced
with something to help you sleep.
Joey Gould is a poet, produce clerk, & educator living in a town called Hopedale. He is a longstanding contributor to Mass Poetry & Mass Leap efforts, writing for Masspoetry.org, leading workshops for Student Day of Poetry events, & helping to coordinate every Massachusetts Poetry Festival since 2011. You'll probably bump into him if you're headed to a Mass Audubon sanctuary.
I'm standing in the wind.
We had five years left to cry,
stay in, get things done.
The wordy gurdy stands
quiet in the middle of my head;
missing pieces [with just enough
shine] rubber-banded tog-
Back then, when she rose
from her beach chair, the weave imprinted itself
on the backs of her jiggly thighs.
Who would have carried it this far,
up the crest between watersheds,
then quit before the downhill?
This was your domain.
Pocket jingling a handful of brads, flat pencil behind your ear,
you’d bore through the browsers; pay and go.
When you rose from the sea
the crown of your head
touched the clouds
A conveyor belt delivers mutton and fowl.
Hot meringues suffer and collapse
under my ruthless fork.
His breath tripped over words stuck between his teeth
and tongue as sinewy shoulders curved.
The child stood, small, shivering in her tattered brown coat,
a dented, scuffed brown suitcase gripped in her hand.
mushrooms, beets, carrots, cabbage,
uncle’s ashen face.