Costel Iarca  © 2008 All Rights Reserved

A childs notion of the immigrant author

Morning brings flitting of leaves, the grass’s wide
flickering like a field of moths.
Clouds spent last night wheezing in the storm
over the buds’ muzzled promising to split,
one big entreaty to split. In this respite

the worm is slick and lost in the middle
of a parking lot. How, now, such
potholed blackness? And all alone?

An old woman sweeps the leafstuff from her porch
with a flat mouth, a lament of debris.
At the corner, though,
a curve upwards in the shape of a scythe
left behind by a blithe hand in the field
sings work’s worth.

The worm slowly loses its slickness in the sun,
misled, wizened thing tearing past the foliage of night
from the window seat of a train,
so dark that the bloodshed in the leaves seems still.
How could her certitude last,

the woman whose faith is unflappable
in the tall grasses?
Nothing fecund about the parking lot,

the worm croaks, now part of the dark bloodshed.
Cruel rainwater, nothing enlivening about it.


Alex Chertok
Copyright © 2008


As a recent graduate from the University of Virginia, Alex Chertok was a member of the Poetry Writing Area Program, a two year course of study within the English major. He has previously been published in Diner, Epicenter, Poetry Motel, Maelstrom, and Urban Spaghetti, among others.

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