ISSUE: Spring 2019
I’m docked at a lake that
the people don’t attend.
Machete on my hip to
make a devil cough up
blood dust and light.
Hungry for ruins of
an afternoon of anything
wild and willing to stick
its neck through the roof
of the leftover lake. I’m
docked at a lake that ain’t
got no river in a field that
ain’t got no fence under a
sun that ain’t never heard
of mercy. I’m docked at the
edge of an unfortunate dinner
next to a wet knot of Cotton-
mouths too big to see.
