by Megan Pinch
Last Seen at Fairhaven Motorcourt, Room 36
by Nancy A. Henry
is harder than you might think
for an Irish girl
with a dangerous taste for melodrama.
He caught her heart open wide as a yawn.
Who was he? The hunter’s god,
and later, a debauched sky god.
He told her the rat race millions
had confounded themselves
with the objects they grasped.
In between bruising sex
and free Cinemax
she called me again.
She said I knew death
and would know what to do.
A bright yellow car
pulled into the parking lot,
attempting to recover some
of the hidden meanings
in the emotional darkness
coming at them like a mad bull.
He told her he loved
everything about drinking, all of it;
wanted to recreate that experience in language,
to disturb language, to make language uneasy,
make language collapse, fall and break,
pulverize and transform itself,
escape through his mangled fingers.
He wanted to write a poem
using words like “vortex” and “surge,”
something that was wild,
chaotic, that drowned, and implied
A fire burned somewhere to the north,
up toward Chicago,
and later she told me
the dragonflies were everywhere.