Size / / /

My girl left for Antartica

in a Nazi flying saucer.

I told her, "I can be cold for you,"

but Lake Vostok's allure was too much.

She wanted vast water, sealed

for aeons under thick glaciers.

I could only scrape thin ice

from my windshield.

That continent drifts through literature

and myth. I too bury monsters there.

Amy drinks wine with Szukalski's

yetis in Neuschwabenland.

I have the sound of spinning tires

from neighbors too lazy to shovel.




John Zaharick (https://plus.google.com/u/0/114552745332635589255) grew up in coal country Pennsylvania, among forests and mine fires. His love for both writing and science has led him from work as an assistant editor for a weekly newspaper to pursuing a graduate degree in ecology. He is currently trapping mice in the woods of Maryland and writing fiction and poetry.
Current Issue
20 May 2024

Andrew was convinced the writer had been trans. By this point his friends were tired of hearing about it, but he had no one else to tell besides the internet, and he was too smart for that. That would be asking for it.
You can see him / because you imagine reconciliation.
It’s your turn now. / the bombs have come in the same temper— / you in your granny’s frame
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