Maeve Dowd '23
Below the indigo sky and underneath jagged clouds,
above silent toads and silent crickets and
yellowing grass and withering leaves,
moonbeams replace streetlights.
Les Oiseaux sit on a sailor’s ship, their songs wavering
in a parched, waterless sea.
Fiery acidic snow falls, singing caribou’s hair.
A waterfall’s upward flow tumbles to the lava core, and guides
an angel ascending down to serve Satan.
After a clairvoyant crow caws three times, a snake’s fangs puncture
The dog’s paws,
passing its venom through His body.
He bleeds where He was not bitten.
Two halves of a broken heart contemplate each other;
one half is understood
while the other half eludes all.
Though a pencil is perpetually resharpening,
its length is dwindling down
until it is only an
Polaroids fade, so the painting becomes
the book’s ink smudges and
the Bible’s pages loosen until they separate.
Scotch tape fixes a shattered mirror, and shards of
glass distort everyone’s vision.
Cows eat vegan beef, so chickens consume
powdered eggs, while some flying pigs fly around
and tell the world that
pork is delicious.
In his grave six feet below, Mr. Poe is cynically laughing at my
cry for help
and the grim future that will come.