You’d think you’d hear it,
overblown, blowing up
your mind, the dial over-
turned, woofer flowing
flowing a fat vibrating tongue-
hum. You’d hear it if you thought
it could save you. You’ll do
anything for a bit of salvation,
anything to be wrapped in blue
neon, a smokebox basement
with a quintet of angels hammering
out chords and a few squeaky notes.
Forget them pearly whatchamacallits.
You’re here for instant rapture, here to melt
in the span of a tune, ice slipping
into brown liquor. You’ll hear it
blowing up your chest
after a few more rounds,
when the ceiling lowers its ninth cloud.
Leaning back on two creaky legs, you’d think
you’d hear salvation laying you low,
running its tongue through your veins.
You’d think you were being thrummed
out of this world or farther into it.
But what’s the difference, really?
In some kind of heaven we hear
what we don’t want to, here.
In this 28th edition of Waccamaw, the Nigerian poet Fasasi Abdulrosheed Oladipupo unpacks the meaning…
[wc_row] [wc_column size="one-half" position="first"] Editorial Team Nonfiction Editor: Amy Singleton Poetry Editor: Brittany Davis Poetry…
The S.C. Creative Sociology Writing Competition invited undergraduate and graduate students from any discipline in…
Museum: a depository of grief displayed aesthetically; I carry the mishaps of things I want…
we say the knife is dead, or the mouth of the knife is dead because…
This website uses cookies.