The ambulance drivers in this town have no clocks
in their homes. Instead, the kitchen tables bear
sandbags and bean cans
and old issues of Playboy.
Iodine adorns the night stand.
Outside, my father’s hands chill to purple,
his veins verge on black, and I
The doctor shrugs, but passes me a prescription
and a pamphlet anyways.
This happens twice and I get better.
Hundreds of feet above,
vultures throw a cocktail party
in honor of new warlords. Here,
nothing lasts long on the
side of the road.
I stay on the train just a little
longer, aware of the rumbles
and ticks. He’s the only one
who eats pizza with a fork,
catching pepperoni like
treetops catching kites.
Some days, I imagine God
as an old woman feeding the ducks;
her arm quivers into the bag of bread pieces
she broke yesterday and swings
out over the moss-laden pond. She smirks,
her cracked lips like blood diamonds.
Blake Pipes is currently a senior undergraduate student at Belmont University in Nashville, Tennessee. Blake enjoys watching bad horror movies, blasting hardcore punk, and taking long walks to Taco Bell. Blake has had three poems featured in two different Belmont University publications and won the first place prize for the 2015 Sandra Hutchins’ Humanities Symposium Writing Award in Poetry.
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.