ThirstOnce a rising chatterClouds the skies---All the birds are deadWires sag over the groundLegs wander through the deserted townToes try to feel a way into beingWeaving thru—Abandoned carsThe search for lost partsIt’s the forest of wrecksIn magazinesRusted out questionsAnd ashThe universe gaspsHead plunges up through the bedHands want to scramble for paper and penA dry stick scratches the sandrepetitionMy mother’s bedtime hugSundown, her energy wornThe warmth of the radiatorI hugIn winterCartoons at 5.pmAnd Saturday morningThe voices long goneStrange lonely joyUnknown beforeThe glow-in-the-dark ringThese are the lost thingsThese areThe lostThingsBurnt meat on the spitInitiates the lonely huntglitchLike poison or a virusWhispered in a sleeping earIn feverish detail I can’t recallThe origin of the storyAm I awakeIf we’d met. Are you toldWas I touched. I feel. Hands heldIn the alley, by the Italian caféOr mixing minds. A plantReturning again to your scentCircling a drain for a traceOf your hair.An alley. A café.A path. A placeA trace of your hairSpirals down the drainMeatThe child’s world is fillingOf godsBristling giantsScatter toysAcross the floorFarmers of the soulSeeds to sowWho wantWhat they want--don’t knowMalleable meatNot too softThe brisk slapOr wildHeatAcross the pink facePink cheeksA diagramShould resistMeat and boneThey sayThey want.And what they wantWhen the film rollsThey don’t knowThe darkLoops
Lance La Rocque lives in Wolfville, NS. With Lisa, Emily, and Max.
He has published in Hava LeHaba, Industrial Sabotage, and The Northern Testicle Review, and has a book of poetry, Vermin, by Book hug.
These poems are from glitch, a chapbook of new poems forthcoming from above/ground press.