Pistol on the stage; an unvoiced
Sage. You used to believe
some people were drowning.
And then you realized they were just
Summer is up on its legs. Lightning
veins across the sky. Your temple
aches only seasonally. Until it doesn’t.
Light a flame, file your claim—hope
Scar in the ocean; disaster. Scar
on the body; unmark the grave.
Here lies one whose name was writ in
booze. Except, accept the path
to your tomb won’t weary itself.
Bang; this is not just yours.
This is a reprint of work originally published in SOFTBLOW.
Candice Wuehle is a Master’s Candidate at the University of Minnesota currently pursing a degree in literature. She hails from a variety of Middle Western towns, but mostly Iowa City, Iowa, where she has studied at the Writer’s Workshop (summer sessions). Her work has appeared in The Honeyland Review and EARTHWORDS and is forthcoming in Gigantic Sequins.