A PRIDE FLAG FOR EVERY FARMHOUSE

The seat where you once bodied is empty.
You toggle the power window open, flesh

exits. Wind whips horse tails at green-headed
flies, wheels melt liquid-quick. You’re left 

with a nest of nerve endings, electric
and hot as the radio dial. Still, every thrust in

treble and bass bursts hard tack candies
down a spine. The chasse, vibrating gospel

organ pipes, jolts a firecracker synapse relief.
Gravel road clears its throat of silent remorse

and bucks your tendons into heedlessness,
headless cravings only for rhinestone ice voltage. 

You find this tongue, a rippling pennant
of muscle and blood, so intangible and alive.

Tongue billows up a mouth, a gym class parachute, 
to scream disturbance into creation. In a second’s

displacement, this same breath reverbs anatomy
back into flat vinyl folds, primary-colored pie

slices, vinyl records to spin vibrations in all
rainbows. Only a spectre remains in the driver’s 

seat which was bodied before the body traveled
elsewhere. Your lovers conduct the vehicle 

onwards, wearing their best collaborations
between skin and vital impulse—soft laughs, 

wild-eyed grins, peaceful sleeps with a book. 
Each flashes past: a static crackle in the music, 

willowy cattail fronds, a scratching long nail
along the crescent conch shell of your ear. 

Just open a window. Open a moment, amnesia
of earthly pain. Open encompassing humidity,

familial greenness, too ripe. Open a second
for gasping cold longing. You hear the cicadas

now like before: Do you really think, after
all we’ve done to this place, we will

get to leave when we’re through?
Eager lips suck in gnats, raisinets

and there aren’t enough mailboxes
on this road for target practice.

There aren’t enough mailboxes on
this road for love letters.

The radio grabs your hand though
you’ve both forgotten these fingers

can tense or your own grip generate pain. 
You dance through the car window,

a stream in today’s front-toothed whistle.

 

FOR WORKERS ON VALENTINE'S DAY

i.
The fermentation is so sweet. Hung
from the walls, fragrant mortality clings 

to blazers, cheap denim, wafts bodices
splayed on concrete. Grasses ooze 

farewell and brew a sucrose venom
nostalgia before too-hot sun molds them 

yellow furniture. To debts never carbon
copy papered, where is the dignity? 

This afterlife is diary pages, intimate
in obscurity and unfaithful when read aloud.

ii.
My subway car rips open today

like an aluminum-wrapped baked potato, 
and my mangled body is fruit punch.

As soft as cafeteria lunch trays, I write out
a will with the sharp buttons on my backpack,

leave it there to become a mule, biting
lawyers and cameras. Grandma’s doilies

now soggy, Grandma’s Winchester is stolen. 
Red, red, red hearts litter the street, vigilant

memory of picket line vibrations then silence. 
Feasting never ceases for some flesh.  

iii.
Roses taste tacky this season so cover
a child in bubblegum kisses. Tell them 

they are lightning. When you remember me
to them, let me wipe away the wet illusions

of freedom and gift them a hammer, 
a sewing needle to bang out a new world.

If you want to be a god, fill children
with the fire under a lentil soup. 


LANA POCHIRO is a poet proudly from the mix of Appalachia and Rust Belt found in Youngstown, Ohio. You can also read her work in Rogue Agent and follow her on Instagram at @lana.m.p.