Note from the Editors

 

   SEEING RED 

    ENDU(RED) ADMI(RED)
    DESI(RED) WONDE(RED)
    RUMO(RED) ADO(RED)
    ENAMO(RED) INSPI(RED)
    DISCOVE(RED) SAC(RED)
    HUNGE(RED) WONDE(RED)
    EXPLO(RED) FEATU(RED)
    AUTHO(RED) SEA(RED)
    DA(RED) UNCENSO(RED)
    SOA(RED) ADVENTU(RED)

 

 

    


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I-30, I-20, Farm to Market Road

  

//

 

You wonder what lives are like in new houses
surrounded by nothing but road and towers
filled with murder, so many eyes. You don’t
remember birds in Watts staring from cement
and broken bottles like so many unsung Gaudis,
so many lonely men who made strange buildings
nobody’s ever lived in. If only this road led to Spain
and oceans could be highways. You would see people
on either side and know all of them are drowning.

  

//

 

You turn at the wire frames of forgotten drive-ins,
pile old speakers in illegible glyphs, flecks of green
falling in the road, broken bottles under empty chairs
on an empty porch, their mismatched backs
an invitation, the postcard of someone else’s view.
You leave your name in the mailbox and make
a new one, dream of where the old names went
on motel beds in bodies that almost look like you.

  

//

 

Shake rest stop napkins and loose change from your bag,
search for toothpaste and find only yourself
in a scratched up mirror. Someone tried to take
the silver coating so you hold your thumb in front of you
and close one eye, paint your portrait on the tile wall.
The flat of your hand on your image cools the skin,
you catch your face in the mirror again and you’re surprised
your eyes don’t make you seasick from breathing.

  

                                    //

 

You can’t tell the difference between desert and ocean
without horizon, without the shifting line that forms
in your sight. You need to be seen like that. You need

an excuse to change into person, some reason
you can’t come up with on your own, not in the fat middle
of nowhere with nothing but you undressing in silence
shadowed by the nodding of genuflect rigs.
You’re going to climb their backs and ride them
like whales, burn your thighs on their metal skin 



Leah Tieger is a graduate of Bennington College, a fiction reader for The Boiler, and cofounder and host of WordSpace's Looped readings in Dallas. She was a finalist for the 2016 Raynes Poetry Prize, and her work can be found in Rattle, Gravel, Entropy, East Bay Review, and others.

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