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Saturday, June 17, 2017

Poetry By Domenic Scopa

Domenic Scopa is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2014 recipient of the Robert K. Johnson Poetry Prize and Garvin Tate Merit Scholarship. He holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. His poetry and translations have been featured in The Adirondack Review, Reed Magazine, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Belleville Park Pages, and many others. He is currently a Lecturer at Plymouth State University and a Writing Center Specialist at New Hampshire Technical Institute. His first book, The Apathy of Clouds (FutureCycle Press), is forthcoming in 2018. He currently reads manuscripts for Hunger Mountain and is an Associate Editor at Ink Brush Publications.

  
When Lithium Stops Working


The sounds that highways make
speak mostly to desperate hitchhikers.

The sky is screaming,
and you are somewhere, waiting,

plotting your night. Maybe you’ll go drink
yourself to death

I, myself, was fifteen when I murdered,
and if someone questions, say I’m still searching

for advice on where to stash a body.
The car windows are luminous and warm,

but I’m in the murky aquarium of my mind,
afraid, again, palms pressed to glass, I’m cornered.

Go away, I say. You laugh and lean a little closer.
I don’t want you here, but you don’t listen to me

and never will. What else can we do?
Sitting, side by side, in a car we’ve driven many miles.

In the deranged humidity.
In the woodpecker’s persistence.

Our relationship a lily pad on the surface

of a river nobody sails anymore.

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