Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Milky Way of Moths by David Gross

Her pale green eye-liner glowed in the dark.
A sargasso sea redhead with a black widow
tattooed on her pale neck, two silver hoops
looped through her left nostril, taking tickets,
righteously stoned, a carnival honeymoon of
maniacal clown laughter, sirens, buzzers,
blood-curdling screams, laser tracers, heavy
metal machine-gun fire litanies of gyp.
She'd been on the street since turning twelve,
landed a graveyard shift at Mickey D's where
she met this guy with a pink mohawk and two
black teardrops inked below his bloodshot eyes,
hovering over humid midwest midways in
small-town fairgrounds that smell of stale beer
and livestock piss, with a clutch of small space
invaders, suspended in shiny fiber-glass saucers,
spinning in a Milky Way of moths, beetles,
and various species of winged insects. Then, on
Saturday night, they pack up their universe
and drive away.

David Gross is the author of five chapbooks, Cup of Moon (Bull Thistle Press, 2000), What We Never Had (tel-let, 2004), Because It Is (tel-let 2005), Pilgrimage (Finishing Line Press, 2009), and Little Egypt (Flutter Press, 2017). His poems and essays have appeared in journals such as Big Muddy, Blue Collar Review, Cape Rock, Common Ground Review, Hummingbird, Kentucky Review, Modern Haiku, Naugatuck River Review and Snowy Egret. He lives with his wife on a small farm in the hills of southern Illinois.

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