Key Hole Apocalypse by Sarah Thursday
There is light faintly pressing
against the rim rubbing soft
past oak and bronze
All the silences have hecklers
all the gentle landings shake
like trains on gravel tracks
All the distances are black ants
on gray clouds slipping by fingers
The gray is a blue child's breath
The gray is a stubbled man's beard
It moves in flickers from
left to right, from left to right
a slow finger and then snap
It's a multi-story parking garage
vacant line after line waiting
for passengers, waiting for solids
to absorb the aching sounds
Sarah Thursday is an advocate for local poets and poetry events. She runs a Long Beach-focused poetry website called CadenceCollective.net, co-hosts a monthly reading and, started Sadie Girl Press. Her first full-length poetry collection, All the Tiny Anchors, is available now. Find and follow her on SarahThursday.com, Facebook, or Twitter.
with her balding bedsheets,
August’s bitch, strung up on the line
her feet are bleached roots
azalea eyes, blue from the acidic dirt of Panhandle drought
A whole town: armed to the teeth,
arming themselves against my teeth.
She-cat of Bladenboro,
I’m here for your dogs,
your sheep, your sons, your blood.
You know who I am, boys.
your candle burns too brightly
never to find another flame to stoke it:
your kindling is out there.
first of all, let’s talk sweet tea. Yankees joke about the secret being sugar—& it is, partly—but the real secret’s in the baking soda. it takes the bitterness out of the tea & makes the sweet taste sweeter. just like you should be to your husband. neutralize all the bitterness & just be sweet as Southern tea. & don’t squeeze them teabags. you know what I mean, girl.
and the old hatreds
have risen up from under their rocks
where they’ve been hiding
taking a new form
they ooze like stale bile
flowing out of sewers
i can feel your populism from here
in the cool confines of the passenger seat
your window is up too
we both got the a/c blasting, bro
because they sure make america hot these days
caliente or kalinatuh i’d say, much to your chagrin
everywhere i turn
the orange-faced bloviating billionaire
with bad hair and a small penis
tells me that he wants to make america great again
for its dying minority
in his d.c. office cum apartment
three miller lights into it
spit shinning his portrait of reagan for the third time
making the sign of the cross
a chunk of wisconsin cheese in his hand
after a hard day of obstructive legislative work
We caught her
100 Acres from the Woods
wearing white, a cotton dress
with porridge stains, raisins
and honey on her breath,
goose feathers almost disguised
by her long golden locks.
