Poem by Amy Wright
Coralee dusts roadsides with lupines, coos bless yous
from clawfoot bathtubs, heron-blue handkerchief
raising passing fishermen.
She drawls, bottom lip a curl
of baler twine,
rear-ends a Civic at the Jefferson yield sign,
weeps, circles
lakes and pulpits, strings butterfly lights
from camper awnings, howls
over slick-glazed, sweet-sauced carcasses,
dabs her fingertips with Wetnaps,
communing foremost with the holy
mackerels of deliciousness.
AMY WRIGHT is the author of two poetry collections, one poetry collaboration, and five chapbooks. Her work has appeared in Kenyon Review, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Diagram, Tupelo Quarterly, and Brevity. This poem can be found in her collection, Cracker Sonnets. Find her at her website.
Second Place Winner of the 2016 Luminaire Award for Best Poetry
