By: Ree Sherwood
Eventide in the slag field
magmatic remains laid to rest
under the wheels of some kid’s
pickup littleyounghearts
with pink sleeves & black
mouths holding the wholewidewhole
gaping palms grasping to be
one molecular chord
come home
with me
says a youngheart
hand to knee
coughing up a smokelung
in the passenger seat town of
poison rusted tap pouring
runoff into every plasticrystal
glass wet those throat holes
before dragging love into this
slagwaste train rattles
iron across town youngheart
clicks loneliness off the radio
come home
calls a mother
like there will be
( firefirefire )
There Used to be Pine Trees
we dream our homes empty seamsplit
down the shingles cracked hallways.
howling staircase & no button couches.
no tvs singing cowboy songs. no glasses
half filled with last night’s coke. we
dream our houses tinder&kindling
Ree Sherwood holds an MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and reads for Carve magazine. Ree comes from Western Pennsylvania and wants to tell you all about it. Find more work in Plates Journal, Lavender Review, and Painted Bride Quarterly.