THE LONG DRY MARCH
We’d grown skinnier than a mile.The streetlights were white pupils staring out of
a coaled landscape. We even forgot how to smile. The years mocked the freckles
on our faces. The long dry march made us thirsty for an afternoon that wasn’t
hard as steel. Then a slice of sunshine helped us crawl out from underneath
ourselves. But the spinning of the world was trapped in our hair. Soon we’d spit
out our teeth so we’d have more room to swallow wind.
Martin Balgach’s poetry and criticism have appeared in The Bitter Oleander, Cream City Review, Fogged Clarity, Many Mountains Moving, Opium Magazine, Rain Taxi, and elsewhere. His chapbook Too Much Breath is forthcoming from Pudding House Publications. More of his work can be found at www.martinbalgach.com.