by Iyonna Naeomi

this is where we find the bones,
days after the torrential downpour
that swallowed cornfield kingdoms
and sent them spiraling into the muck.
the men-in-black-and-blue come rolling
in, as they are wont to do, stand in their
semi-circular formation and recite sweat-
damp doublespeak into the dirt.
everyone who is listening pretends not
to know. everyone who knows pretends
not to listen. pushing down their sleeves
over their knobby elbows as if it will hide
the bleak stains of their disgrace. years later,
we will still be spitting mud out of our
mouths, setting fire to the old hay, divining the
less-urban legends with our ankles tied.

Author Bio: Iyonna attends a performing arts school in the south, somewhere, where they avoid doing their physics homework at all costs. When they aren’t trying to take on the spirit of Charles Baudelaire, they’re doing their best to pose as a normal human being.