Miller and Makers, a foundry worker
(This is my second job)
with feathered bangs and a nicotine habit.
Hail from a blue sky.
Lovers on the brink
have an appetite for the mundane.
What is a zebra after it is five years old?
A new, warm palm.
On the way to Boise I passed no lovers,
bought no coffee at the interstate gas station.
(Mlady, they shut off our well. We got nothing.)
The strawberry-haired attendant scraped bugs from my windshield.
(Rain-0 coats the glass. Debris slides off a dream.)
Mornings, the bartender fashions a soldier boy
while her son sleeps.
She heats bronze to a thousand degrees,
fills wax-lined molds.
Beside the choking fountain, she sucks in smoke,
throws back her head, glides straight to the stars.
Shes always wanted to learn the constellations.
Night is a freckled child. If we find patterns there,
we do not name them.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 39 | Winter 2013