by Polly Conway
Author’s note: The poems in this series were created using found language from spam emails.
Me again: a poppy growing
in a bulkhead
of snow. Scullery
maids smile while they chop
asparagus and death-
cold timber. Look
closely into my
flower-sprinkled hub.
Hitch: I’m rapture
wrought by vague-worded nothings,
twice-drugged by an opiate
titration of stubble
and vanilla bean ice cream. I brake for buffet,
peas and corn in a clay pot, well-nurtured baby’s
got back. Yes, this dissociation is constant.
Rain-blue veins, beta rays, purple-coated
lips post car collision. Remember, you
said the trees looked like
broccoli as we flew
past, winged-footed Mercuries. Short-lasting
Comments