BY grace arenas
Cold Open:
The meet-cute of oil slick and sunken Cold War sub
results in a gooey menace and the harbor town hemorrhages,
Act One:
leaving only the lobster king and the kooky taffy crone
available for questioning. The king is grizzled, red-baked
from days on deck. The crone flickers with lucidity, barks
raunchy jokes at Agent 1. Her gray pigtails swish in time
with the clamshell wind chimes on the porch. I haven’t seen
anything out of the ordinary. Agent 2, aside: Ordinary
being a relative term.
Act Two:
No-brand cereal boxes. Diegetic Springsteen, or someone
with more affordable rights. Follow the trail of sludge. Crawl down
into the sewer, at some point. Banter. No-brand cola can.
Filler back at the lab.
Act Three:
Shoot at a shape in the dark. Shoot at a shape in the dark.
Shoot as the shape starts to sharpen: Not you, anyone but you.
The Tag:
Maybe: a funeral, an autopsy, not necessarily in that order.
Maybe: a kiss, or its conspicuous absence, or a closing door.
Maybe: a feral howl.
Maybe:
Grace Arenas is a poet from Maryland, Montana, Massachusetts, and then Maryland again. Her chapbook, they’ll outlive you all, was published in late 2017 with Dancing Girl Press. Her poems have appeared in Black Warrior Review, Shenandoah, and others.