Brooke Spalding
I’m angry
when neighbors roll slow
and talk about god
through the salt-caked
mini-van window
but I don’t want to be mad
about god
because I know what they mean.
My compost pile thaws in Missouri. My husband and I talk about New York
in the shower.
It’s nice to see a penis
when you’re giving up
on your dreams together. Limp
kale hangs and
I think about all the winter
pruning I was supposed to do.
I take out
chicken bones
from quartered legs,
old jasmine rice,
wet sliced potatoes I like looking at the compost. At the pile of
resurrection. The bread
is blooming green mold,
that’s a sign of warmth.
God is the feeling of momentum
lying on the grass.
Brooke Spalding is a poet and essayist from Kansas City, Missouri. She is considered “Missouri Hot” which makes the Midwest her final resting place. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Tampa Review, Moon City Review, New Delta Review, juste milieu zine, among others. She was nominated for Best of the Net 2023.
Artwork: “Weaponizing Cuteness” by Electra Pelias
Fabric, foam, digital manipulation