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1 poem

by Nolan Allan

Nolan Allan is a writer and photographer whose work has appeared in Prelude, Alien Mouth, Spy Kids Review, Hazlitt, and many others. His chapbook Mountain Dew was published by Bottlecap Press in 2017. He lives in Durham, North Carolina with his cat, Bud, and his hound dog, Boosie.


sunset choreographed fistfights, do you get that


crickets change pitch based off ambient


temperature shifts? they forgot my fruit pie


the last time i was there, is that a shirt


or a blouse, tell me. those dangly accents


around my neck suggest


the latter, but now the desert


only has high noon to wring


answers from. wild onions stand up


nicely to the considerable heat


proper destruction requires, my ass,


however, turns salmon when people


loiter on my grave. wrinkled egg google image search


morphs into bouquets of learning


new words, though only one out


of a hundred survive to adulthood. acres of oiled


up animals designed to be eaten living


too long, spreading old monstera


seeds from their owner’s intentionally minimalist


apartments, bay windows ajar but unbroken,


as if the residents could be back


any second. the animals


enter scene, they brew malt liquor, decamp


their stills and carboys to the sewers


where best to protect the juice


spilling from scallop


edged underwear. we moon


over my child


sized fort left to lichen, termite


frass mounded atop polaroid


quality memories, the sand box


my parents laid beneath


pocked with inverted cones declaring


ominously the presence of ant


-lions, little sinkholes filling in


as a metaphor for anything.

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