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Poem in Which Acid Rain is Just Acid || Katie Prince


poem in which acid rain is just acid

 

Or, poem in which most people die. Nobody is sad about it. In a swampy poem it mists all the time. The rain eats through steel bridges and signs, warps cars into piles of melted engine. The boats sink at their docks and all the fish float belly-up, no eyes in their sockets. All the homes are moldy skeletons, cracked foundations lacking insulation and walls. Everywhere is a streak of stripped paint is driftwood is a hurricane’s aftermath. In this poem, no one is allowed outdoors without a reinforced black umbrella. Hospitals are filled with frightened faces peeling off in sheets, people who are now equal amounts visible bone and melted skin. I used to love to dance in the rain they’ll say through their misshapen not-mouths, their shiny pink skin grafts. Nobody laughs out loud then goes home and cries about it. Nobody sits in the dark with an umbrella while rain burns through the roof. Nobody asks where we will go when the rain eats away the floor. Everyone says we did this to ourselves, there has never been such thing as an accident. Everyone is certain about these things. Nobody knows not to touch the rain. Nobody will leave this poem whole.

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Katie Prince is an MFA candidate at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. Her poems have been published in Smoking Glue Gun and Prick of the Spindle.