| Highway 13
Thin girls whisper futile pleas
in cold backseats at midnight.
Slack-jawed boys unload on deer,
wipe palms on greasy cotton.
This is where
the future ends.
Feudal hills left impotent
by ignorant incisions.
Dark sheds gorged with dead machines
immune to caustic sermons.
This is where
the past begins.
Limestone water, green and still.
Painkillers and tobacco.
Rotted yokes in swaying barns
surrendered to black briers.
This is where
the killer grins.
Twisted shapes that once were whole.
Mildewed trailers, blasted signs,
shoddy crosses, palsied beasts.
Hands crushed into docile claws.
This is where
the hawk descends.
Learning Stars
For Angela Ball
Silver gutters,
grids of lawn, two silver
towers' signals seeking
the lake's dark tablet.
Broadcasts submerged
in the light of train whistles
and intoxicated houses,
dioramas. I have this eye
that does crazy things, divorced,
depressed. Names are glorious lies,
say the stars.
- John 'Chet' Hicks
| Mr. Hicks has appeared in Red Booth
Review before. He's the
best bass player who's ever been in the magazine. He lives in Tuscumbia,
Alabama. |
|
