Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Five 2 One Magazine. He has published two pamphlets with Green Panda Press and his first chapbook A Curmudgeon Is Born is due to be published by Yellow Chair Press in June or July. His work has appeared or is due to appear in Crack the Spine, Chrion Review, SLAB, Main Street Rag, Blue Mountain Review, Of/with, Word For/Word, eFiction India, and elsewhere.
Tin Foil Wings
Time flies on tin foil wings
into the not-so-married face of a mirror fracture;
old lady she weep in the garden big teardrop rain
feeds the flowers birthing only bugs from the dirt—
so many children and not one removed from her womb—
the foggy house no one ever visited;
juice orange swallow lonesome morning
reverberates only echoes and shadows as friends
scraped from the walls where they bounce
the rapid cuss through the air;
days turned non-tepid, the bitter rush of bonechill comes,
regular as newspaper, the eyes flood
smearing ink, a frail blurry life
never lets a focus peek through; daisies are dull flowers
on the bathroom’s cracked linoleum floor;
she full well knowing, reflected in many-faceted mirror,
that hope can't fly far on tin foil wings.
The bomb went off underwater.
The trees of the ocean shook as if in the hardest of gales.
The trees of the ocean writhed and were uprooted
as if an atomic bomb had suddenly detonated.
The trees of the ocean were torn from their roots
and swirled in the slow chaos of the water.
The octopuses’ eggs were swept from their gardens.
There was disaster and calamity and disbelief
in the voices of the whales.
The out-pulsing thought hit the lonesome highway of the intellect.
The umber and ocher dogs faded to pieces of fiddlesticks.
The out-pulsing thought was beyond the Great Siberian Novel.
The out-pulsing thought drove right through the magnanimity of diamond doors.
The out-pulsing thought wore no blood and was a perfect parabola.
The out-pulsing thought flew into the comprehension of God.
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