Thursday, 26 April 2018

A poem by Andy Stallings


One wishes to write a letter,
more than to receive one.
No one knows what formed
the grooves in the bark of the
Louisiana Live Oak, but then
again, no one’s asking. He
kept a catalogue of unwanted
things, discarded things,
forlorn spaces, dead things,
and attended to the rhythm
of the garbage trucks
spreading out from the
landfill into the city. The
sexuality of concrete, beneath
the police cruiser’s rotating
blue disc. Glamour was
elsewhere, a bundle of dried
leaves burning. I’m waiting
for the dusky lyric. Rhetorical
blind spot.

Andy Stallings lives in Deerfield, MA, where he teaches English at Deerfield Academy. His second collection with Rescue Press, “Paradise,” will come out in 2018. He has four young children, and coaches cross country running.

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