Under the incoming clamor Of the fireworks, The proxy rockets' red glare, A mother skunk and her kits, Fleeing the bursts, Come storming down My driveway single file— Eyes front, tails down, Stripes like the white lines On the highway. For them Even such surrogate shelling Sounds an alarm, As must the smells Of starter fluid and meat Being charred. In 1812, Boasted Francis Scott Key, No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave. The skunks make straight For the shelter of the trees. Behind them the sky Burns to the ground.
AN INTERVIEW WITH CHASE BERGGRUN, AUTHOR OF R E D, ON THE POLITICS AND POETICS OF ERASURE AND THE LONG POEM "The long poem has historically as we know been a form that men have dominated. And the way that the long poem takes up space is so interesting and fascinating to me as a gendered space, too. I’ve talked with Paige Lewis about this a little bit—it never ceases to amaze me, how radical the act of asking someone to sit with you for a long time unfortunately is if you are not a cis man." via DIVEDAPPER
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