person Michael Prihoda, one poem

Michael Prihoda lives in central Indiana. He is the founding editor of After the Pause, an experimental literary magazine. His work has received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology and he is the author of nine poetry collections, most recently Out of the Sky (Hester Glock, 2019).

//

America as ever-burning forest

can you see
this from the moon?

if something is out
there, tell them

turn around
before

we witness
the light

that indicates
they’ve already died.

i’d rather see wet,
blank expanse,

not wonder at
salvation’s timing.

\\

person Michael Prihoda, two poems

Michael Prihoda lives in central Indiana. He is the editor of After the Pause, an experimental literary magazine and small press. His work has received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology and he is the author of eight poetry collections, most recently Years Without Room (Weasel Press, 2018).

***

understand a spiderweb & how it doesn’t have wings

for Casey Mcleod, after teaching 8th grade English for two years

am i art
to twenty

humans?
or only

a prayer
of future’s

anteroom.
i hold

no keys
yet i must

hand them
a padlock

of fingered
combination,

learn them
a twist

of sleight
tourniquet.

for they
bleed

earlier
than i ever did

& i don’t
quite believe

any promise
of ocean

could fathom
this canoe.

**

another city

remember
how

the snow
in St. Paul

turned flaxen,
tannic and gray

as the inside
of a gutter

or a mouth
of toothless

paint
samples.

time to redecorate,
soften the blow

of the fourth
dimension,

form our pillows
into other shapes,

a skyline against
the couch arms

so that, when our
company arrives,

expecting brie
and the wine

of half a week’s wages
they will see another city.

***