SPOTLIGHT: A Blurry Photograph of Home by Gina Tron

BLACK HERRING

A tar dealing family
a former corpse
in the mud
of a Cumberland Farms
a Cumbies
a body
mouthpiece, a family
tar as thick as tires
that could be slashed
for exposing
the unintended murder
of the business
not premeditated
not intentional
just collateral
just the terrority

It all comes
with,
the cop says
as he chews tar
in cheek
don’t tell nobody
I unarmed
in the seat of his game
surrounded by guns, throne of gauges
as we drive through a parking lot
with a murder of crows
little black dots
on a sheet of white snow
window down
and dragon puffs spew
from his mouth
it’s a picture-perfect image
of the moment

Standing on the hill
more murders this year
than ever before
but it’s still so still

Cawing together
on a sheet of white
icing darkness in mass
gathering until the click of overcast.

PENUMBRA

I am not a statue
just a blurred photograph of one
I’m rotting parts
a human with a surname
who was sucked into a swirling hole
noir, eating solar systems without condiments
and when I came out the other side
the title had been ripped off
detached, robotic
thrown up
I’m merely the regurgitation of real feelings
the salvaged ones recovered in the spatial storm.

CHECK ENGINE

I lay in the new car smell
standing upon grass
not a vehicle in sight
staring at their gravesite
waiting for words to waterfall down
but I am a desert now

The letters that I used to dress up
have abandoned me
an alphabet still, I pull from
but their curves aren’t covered

There is less dirt dividing us now
but the souls have deserted me years before
their flesh suits did.

CROSS COUNTRY > DOWNHILL

We traced a ski path in sheets
downhill fast
and swam in each other’s frozen lakes
with hesitance but also,
haphazardly fast

The warning signs were there
of a drain
with endless sadness pouring down it
even with the faucet off
yet I still insisted that he wash me
with the soap he was too ill to see.

PATERNAL

I’d cry and try to get through the door
but the pink wouldn’t hear me
cotton in ears to blur out the noise beyond the walls
and the blue, while face-to-face,
would push me away
I’d climb over his legs to get to the doorknob
but he’d shove me down
with his eyes upon items of interest
books, newspapers, anything but me
the toys behind me merged into a pink mess of ponies and convertibles

I eventually learned to stop crying.