I.
Electric lines stretch from Mendocino
to Big Sur where rocks jettison distraction
with their amped wildness.
They clamp fear, culling awe—
I work half-asleep aside these clutches
of vine populated by transformers.
Womb-like cities burst voltaic, fill the country.
II.
Fingering a crisp copy of Joan Didion, you dream
of crossing across slouching California to leave me
come the purple flash of dusk’s bristle-light to crash
like rushing wave crests, who come with thunder.
No quarter to give grace, mercy unable,
mercy dries in my hand. I’ve ceased to cherish you.
You have done the same. Alone, we wait for rescue.
We’ve sold the children’s toys.
III.
I work the line until nightfall.
The empty thermos walks out in hand to meet you.
Coastal rain beads on our rust bottom truck.
Winding around the road the stars
nestle spangled-white maize in black porridge,
light peers through tar.
You and I breathe under all this corruption.
Manny Grimaldi is an editor and writer living in Kentucky. Manny is in his 5th year as manager
of the poetry journal, Yearling. His work has featured live at Insomniacathon 2024 and Sitwell’s in Cincinnati,
As well as in Disturb the Universe Magazine, and Moss Puppy:
Issue 7 The Boneyard, for which he received a Best of the Net nomination for “Houses Pt. 1.”
His books include “Riding Shotgun with the Mothman” and the latest “Finding a Word to Describe You”
through Whiskey City Press, NC. His currency is his word, and the dishes are never done.
