The LitFic Review

Little Wane by SeeThomasHowl

Here in the capitol

of lowercase relations

your drink is holding

yard sales for you.

Among headstones is a table, a lock, a plate of cucumbers

and salamanders (which can be pickled), a bowl of raisins --

a handful -- skating the bowl's concavity,

trying to

become round.

If a condition of space

travel was one could nevermore return, how many

astronauts do you think

there'd have been?

More stars in lawschool than the cosmos.

Somewhere there's a story

of Indians singing

instead of pointing and laughing

when the Pilgrims came

and the Atlantic dropped off

into the earth's crust behind them. You see

pickles can't become cucumbers again. Everyone who died

drunk driving in World War II knows that.

But still

ovens dream of one day being iceboxes,

and the ice cubes all know this

and it makes them sweat.