Size / / /

They raised an altar of abandoned tires,

set it afire,

chanted portions of the 1957

Chevy Owner's Manual

to summon a virgin.

But any likely candidates were driven off

by the smell of licorice gone bad

before they could be awed

by a vision of 1957

beginning to shine again,

rising on phoenix limbs from black smoke

assembling itself into whitewalls,

flames growing into chrome strips,

a hood ornament.

The worshippers,

still lacking a virgin,

were forced to settle for feasting eyes

on youth's flawed innocence.

By dawn, they had left,

carried off, some say,

in the sun's chariot.




Duane Ackerson's poetry has appeared in Rolling Stone, Yankee, Prairie Schooner, The Magazine of Speculative Poetry, Cloudbank, alba, Starline, Dreams & Nightmares, and several hundred other places. He has won two Rhysling awards and a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. He lives in Salem, Oregon. You can find more of his work in our archives.
Current Issue
3 Feb 2025

By: Mu Cao
Translated by: Hongwei Bao
too many things left unsaid/ words fold into themselves 
在沒有時間的Hotel California,Isa成為我的時間。
By: Hsin-Hui Lin
Translated by: Ye Odelia Lu
In the timeless space that is Hotel California, Isa becomes my time.
不思議な道でした。どこまで行っても闇夜。
By: Mayumi Inaba
Translated by: Yui Kajita
It was a strange road. Endless dark night no matter how far I walked.
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By: E.M. Linden
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By: Susannah Rand
Podcast read by: Claire McNerney
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