Novocain, bathwater hands glowing
in the interstate; passing an American
anytown of granite constellations,
lymph node greens and grays, catching
hallelujahs out of the pastel sky.
Idling on Buck Drive, she lights
a cigarette, blow smoke up into
the signal of new beautiful radio
handing above us.
An old person dies with memories
and achievements she says, plucking
a junebug out of her ponytail. But kids
like us die with opportunities.
She tries to coagulate, become a river.
I like reflections she says, mistaking stars
for airplanes with her hands stretched out
into an improvised crucifixion. I like
the commentary written on my arms.
When we were seventeen we stood
on the edge of a mountain, reaching
over the lip to catch fireflies in our teeth.
I watched lightning climb up from
the earth, become a never-ending,
claw its way through the hazard lights
into a strato-cumulous desire. I wanted
to be heroic, to cannonball my way
Steve McGouldrick is from a dying steel town in Western Pennsylvania. He hosts a radio program on weekends and has had work appear in Metazen, Radioactive Moat, Pear Noir and elsewhere.
Jen May is a Scorpio and artist living in Brooklyn, NY with 3 cats. She keeps a tumblr updated regularly with horoscope images and everything else.