The thunder was growling
like any defenseless thing
and the birds flew in circles
over our heads. Everything
was tired; the branches lied
vine-like over the rain-slick
street like lost shoelaces
inching back into pairs,
and we bent our boredom
to the back burner in origami
folds. The whole store sat unnoticed
which, to the lot of us, led
to a collective unrest.
I tucked the worn rags into water
and you, with your names
I’ll forget easily when it’s time,
cleared the mold off
of every peach. These days,
in my monotony,
I am a thing capable of rotting,
scared or stoned, a still-stemmed
stone fruit already molding,
before the bird wings catch
in the fence snares, before
the stars yelp back to life,
before anyone can taste it,
before anyone would care.
Kara Goughnour is a writer and documentarian living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. They are the author of “Mixed Tapes,” forthcoming in the Ghost City Press Summer 2019 Micro-Chap Series. They are the recipient of the 2018 Gerald Stern Poetry Award, and have work published or forthcoming in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Third Point Press, and over forty others. Follow them on Twitter and Instagram @kara_goughnour or read their collected and exclusive works at karagoughnour.com.
Foxglove Journal 