History & the Doomedhttps://i1.wp.com/barrenmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/DSC_7277-1.jpg?fit=2000%2C1125&ssl=120001125Amee Nassrene BroumandAmee Nassrene Broumandhttps://secure.gravatar.com/avatar/bbc0316516a103eb51fb1b697e707c17?s=96&d=mm&r=g
Curb corners accumulate dandelions, cigarettes, & skeletons, compliments of the whirlwind as it keens through errant sunbeams. Antennae twitch at smashed gears. I nudge a broken spider with my toe, disturbing a surging mass of ants. How do they perceive time? Perhaps a month seems as full as a childhood, as interminable as an adolescence. In each jaw of sharp lace, the ache begins anew. Bottle caps jounce & clatter, caught in dead silk, marionette ballerinas abandoned. There’s a signal & the spider is born away upon the marching tide. Above, myrmecologists mimic their hurried patter—human grimaces, shuddering meat. The curb cares nothing for any of this. Here, the torn numbers of the day gather. Autumn nights come cold, presaging winter. Birch leaves & bark curls rustle in concrete hollows, daydreaming the sound of water into being. The wing bones of a songbird flutter across the pavement, feathers bloodied—oddments of a repast, love tokens from a passing hawk. The army returns in a river of legs, coursing towards a ladybug. There’s a struggle—the drop nearly vanishes, but not quite. Bloodless.
From the underbelly of a leaf, a shadow unfurls.
Bells grind out the golden hour.
Bones ring silver upon the ground.
Amee Nassrene Broumand is an Iranian-American poet from the Pacific Northwest. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Sundog Lit, her work has also appeared in A-Minor Magazine, Empty Mirror, Menacing Hedge, Word Riot, & elsewhere. She served as the March 2018 Guest Editor for Burning House Press.