Lynch

A. E. Weisgerber

I. Time

Let
my
feeble
dash-light fail.
Let it fade or die.
Minitaur hornets swarming close,
impress the ear like fog clouds ensnared in square wave synth.
When headlamps lick like silk, I'll sing
ave Missoula
and you'll sing
ave-
Mis-
sou
la
and
we'll all
sing ave
Missoula when the
cherry-black roads and ruby lights
guide our ears and our eyes, I'll sing ave Missoula
and you'll sing ave Missoula;
we'll all sing halle-
lujah as
the cur-
tains
rise.

II. Fire

Now
a
snapping
whoosh signals
glistering rubble
in pale phosphorescent decay;
lambent tongues flare up; magic cigarette fog machines
calmly urge; dim figures in the
Moog whisper: the world
you love is
not the
on-
ly

III. Dialogue

Have
you
seen the
black-paw fox
and her soft-paw kits?
They practiced all month building dens
in the baseball heap that went unspread during lockdown
and I see now the sand is flat
and I am worried
about them.
She is
a
fox.
We
met
before
near her den.
Don't you remember?
On the East Coast, when a fox is
sentenced to death it goes to a dual carriageway
alone, never knowing when an
executioner....
And what the
FUCK is
your
name?
A. E. Weisgerber was born in Orange, New Jersey. Work in Berfrois, DIAGRAM, Yemassee, SmokeLong, 3:AM, and The Alaska Star. She is a Chesapeake Writer, Frost Place Scholar, Reynolds Fellow, and reads for Wigleaf's Top 50. Follow @aeweisgerber or visit anneweisgerber.com for more information. Her Neutral Spaces page is https://neutralspaces.co/aeweisgerber/.
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