Marty Cain

from MEADOW OF RUST

 

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The meadow of rust

We return ourselves always

Grew between orchards

Of equivalent value:

Silver, Apple.

Aquamarine, Apple.

 

The year is 4000; most

Young children and parents are dead

Or will be dead soon. Most
Prominent industries will sink

Into soil. Along with the rich.

Field mice armies. Dance music

In the distance. Everything

Stable will fucking fall.

 

Like this rental house with its rotting foundation.

Like this horse with intestines outside its body.

Like this meadow now rusting in wayward light.

 

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What inside of it

Inside of it what

The thirteen inches of

Bluish cord, stomach

Engorged to be

Surgically removed

For four years

Of Anxious longing

For five years of

Unmedicated sleep

For seventeen years

Of content monitoring

Beheadings cleaved

From the dominant

Narrative.

 

Under the bed

Yellow fluid poured

Through the boxframe
Cracks

Now look in the puddle

And see thine own eyes

 

She ate the stuffing
It filled her up.

 

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Under the meadow

Not knowing where we were

A layer of astroturf

Causing irreparable burns

To flesh, retain this heat

A layer of pellets

A layer of worms

A nest eating itself

To continue growing

A bodiless shepherd

His sockets steaming

There is red within us

An organ of clouds, bio-

Luminescent trundle

Of wagons bearing straw

Under the meadow streams

A modern farmouse

Under the meadow

We hold in our babies

Our nest was made

Our nest was made

Of the red within us

 

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Marty Cain is the author of Kids of the Black Hole (Trembling Pillow Press, 2017), and www.enterthe.red, a digital supplement. Most recently, his creative and critical work has appeared in Fence, Boston Review, Tarpaulin Sky, and TAGVVERK, among others. He holds an MFA from the University of Mississippi, and currently, is pursuing a PhD at Cornell University, where he studies rural poetry communities and the infrastructure of late capitalism. With Kina Viola, he edits Garden-Door Press, a chapbook micropress.