long division aftermath

Sara Dallmayr

We can’t pretend the mouth daydream never happened.
We can’t even pretend no moonshot pebbles in the canyon,
Or Kubrick’s tailor rang up his suit, a stain of velvet, peroxide blue.

To ache in the sky disease wake, the cars were there, all white
Creeping toward the forever stones and red winged blackbirds.
It’s like all those dusty footprints at the fair in the summer
A jerking ride on the Matterhorn with Poison blaring
From the pirate ship, everyone’s hair falling into the sky
Going back up to fade to innocence.
Nothing left to give to the aging but new toys
And something soft to eat, easy to digest.
A squeal of old tire on the Ferris wheel left the cars
Swinging, one by one, through the gates and toward
The striped awning. Every minute refuses to leave. 

A bottle green branch against the swirl of dark feathers.
Down of prehistoric reptiles refusing to take flight
Somewhere under mid-Michigan, a claw underneath
A glacial mystery. Build more berms for the parking lots
And the uninterrupted cascade of flags destroying
The wind, all manifolds and carburetors, dusty
Office where all leases go to sleep, to drift
And awaken in another era.

Sara Dallmayr is originally from Kalamazoo, Michigan. She attended Western Michigan University and received a BA in English/creative writing/poetry. Dallmayr's work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in The Esthetic Apostle, Eclectica, Texas Literary Review, Third Coast, High Shelf Press, 3Elements, and others. She currently lives in South Bend, Indiana, where she works for the post office as a rural carrier.