Hi, all, I’m in the process of winding down a current work-in-progress novel, so I haven’t had the dedicated time to write some awesome flash fiction. For today, I’ve decided to share a poem I wrote back in September. (Which is why it’s going to seem out-of -place now that we’re in November.) It’s one of my first stabs at poetry, so please pardon the beginner-level rhyme and rhythm. I’m working on revising this poem, so any/all feedback on it would be much appreciated!
This September Heat
It’s a numbered plastic bag, this heat.
Ninety, ninety-five, a century
Printed on its transparent taut sheet
Doming the September sky bleary,
Suffocating, too, the land below.
Now, like lungs our trees unfurl and flurry
Leaves in desperation to swallow
Cool, clean air. The bag, though, twists and hurries
To stifle. Now like its ghostly floating
Cousins littering limbs, this sky-long bag
Vines itself and chokes the trees. Gloating,
Our foe tells us not to try (as it sags)
To make dimpled dents in plastic
Hard as this. With panicked frantic
Words we shout for rescue, our mouths spastic.
Now the bag becomes mad and manic
And ties its small handles, “U”s upside
Down around our heads. The numbers grow:
Hundred, hundred-five. We reside
In a tight polyethylene show.
Plastic, some say, never decomposes,
Never dies while trapping misery.
Pupils wide, our heads are drooping roses
Bagged in a gag bouquet. So we
Spin small lies, like: This will sometime end
Or: Who needs to breathe or see
Anyway? The bag is our best friend.
Besides, it isn’t as if we can flee.
Follow me on Twitter at @ethan_nelsonwrt for takes on reading, writing, and more, all under 280 characters!