Ian Cappelli

The corner kids hawking ersatz

     pucks crush beer-cans with their shoes.

     I’m sure they know by now how small

gravity’s scrunched them: into gossip, 


     Wal-Mart cashiers. Children sequestered

to the ISS will grow longer bones, extend

their limbs into spendthrift trusts, into 

     basecamps between stars if they wanted.


     Some mountaintops have hands.

My spaghettified soot, post-Greyhound,

became Goodwill clothes – Gramma says

     (in other news) to let the words shoot


     from your mouth until, in space, their kids

           are the size of football fields. I am proof

                that she lies.

                                      Typically, sediment pigpiles

     over itself until indistinguishable 

from slagheaps,

from karst.

Ian Cappelli (he, him) holds a B.A. in Psychology from MCLA where he served as a co-managing editor for its literary journal. He plans to get an MFA in creative writing as soon as he can. His recent work appears in CatheXis Northwest Press (that's you), Watershed Review, and Enizagam.

This poem is from Ian Cappelli's chapbook "Suburban Hermeneutics" forthcoming from our sister press Cathexis Northwest Press!