THE BIRDS WE PILED LOOSELY • ISSUE 10 • JANUARY 2017

FUCKING HAPPINESS, MAN...
by CL Bledsoe & Michael Gushue
This is what happens behind the postcards:
you, happy as soup in a can, understanding
nothing, The luggage crawled under our bed,
a wounded dog. And this one, of the world’s
largest yam, the twine unraveled from between
us and sitting in a shed outside of Duluth.
Behind that wagon is where I’ve hidden
the evidence, but I’ll sell you a ticket.
It’s a chance to win Driving Under the Influence.
Look at this one of colorful breakdown lanes:
a key caked with dirt, something flat, no longer
alive, a deflated bottle, trash to build into
that panorama we could take a picture of
and put on a postcard captioned, “Postcard.”
In a drawer somewhere, the agricultural
bulletin you coveted for the cleanness
of its boredom. Behind this cloverleaf,
its swollen civic hubris, so boring and desolate.
Our quote level sinks low in the barrel.
You can’t barely reach it, just the tips
of your fingers do. You, content
as autocorrect in a ream of traffic alerts, go on.
WHERE I HAD A CRADLE ONCE
by Emelia Reuterfors
the salamander
grows another
lost leg
skin spills
sexprint of life before
from the belly
of slothful waters
quiet now. a leg
may take time
to wink out.
look: i made another
way to twitch. i made
a woman cry at loss
of lake, a home of hair.
sticky, soon
my brain will halve
into left,
right lagoon
i evolve into a spong.
i move quietly
through your body,
play little games
with your tail
stubby when sad.
82 83