Hobble Creek Review
| Amy Bracken Sparks |
Green Muscles Up
We take it wincing
as the dogs skim over
the amber field of Stroh's
chips and Miller Lite
diamonds. A burned car
corpse leaves a mirror
of itself, dark rectangle
marking the ground like
a tiny Hiroshima. You
glom onto the rhomboid
piece of metal that has
come through the fire
uncleaned. I pocket
the blue spiral, the only
shiny thing for miles.
The dogs lap the orange
water gripping a child's
bike, stolen no doubt
and ditched here where
sweet pea vines climb
the top of everything
but the asphalt piles.
Sumac, mulberries, flack.
Cars thunder above
on the connector bridge.
Breathe easy. Green
muscles up. The dappled
day is not a goner. Dogs
mount the hills, piss
and stand like conquerors.
Ice-Locked at the Big Goose Egg
A chunked and slowed
Erie white
to the horizon
but there is no horizon today.
Just a sweep down
to up
side to side
white.
Stilled
time.
No point
to point at.
Feral cats on the path
to Wildwood all black
white or black and white
pile in their hay bale
house ringed by empty cans
while satellites
blink
beyond weather
zeros circling the earth.
We take it wincing
as the dogs skim over
the amber field of Stroh's
chips and Miller Lite
diamonds. A burned car
corpse leaves a mirror
of itself, dark rectangle
marking the ground like
a tiny Hiroshima. You
glom onto the rhomboid
piece of metal that has
come through the fire
uncleaned. I pocket
the blue spiral, the only
shiny thing for miles.
The dogs lap the orange
water gripping a child's
bike, stolen no doubt
and ditched here where
sweet pea vines climb
the top of everything
but the asphalt piles.
Sumac, mulberries, flack.
Cars thunder above
on the connector bridge.
Breathe easy. Green
muscles up. The dappled
day is not a goner. Dogs
mount the hills, piss
and stand like conquerors.
Ice-Locked at the Big Goose Egg
A chunked and slowed
Erie white
to the horizon
but there is no horizon today.
Just a sweep down
to up
side to side
white.
Stilled
time.
No point
to point at.
Feral cats on the path
to Wildwood all black
white or black and white
pile in their hay bale
house ringed by empty cans
while satellites
blink
beyond weather
zeros circling the earth.
Amy Bracken Sparks has work forthcoming in Barn Owl Review and
Gargoyle. Her work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Southern
Poetry Review, and Denver Quarterly. Amy's books are Queen of Cups
(chapbook) and Serious Red (Cleveland State University Poetry Center).
She is currently a graduate student at the NEOMFA program in Ohio.
Gargoyle. Her work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Southern
Poetry Review, and Denver Quarterly. Amy's books are Queen of Cups
(chapbook) and Serious Red (Cleveland State University Poetry Center).
She is currently a graduate student at the NEOMFA program in Ohio.
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