the old fastenings were so loose
all red-rusted
ragged with age
and they couldn’t find anyone
willing
to climb up into the
exospheric attic
so cold, so dark
(of course, they were offering
little more than
double minimum wage, which is still so…
tragic)
but anyway, the nuts and bolts
stressed
on doomsday-dread
and dismal weather forecasts
and the whole thing broke free!
(the sky, I mean)
and we watched
in abject horror
as the whole horizon
snapped off its hinges and suddenly
splaaaaaaashed…
into the sizzling sea
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Gretchen Tessmer lives in the deep woods of the U.S./Canadian borderlands. She’s published short stories and poems in such venues as Nature, Bourbon Penn, Strange Horizons, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and F&SF, as well as previous appearances in Kaleidotrope, with her poetry collecting several Pushcart, Rhysling and Dwarf Stars nominations along the way. |