your salt . . .

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Poem by Sean J. Mahoney

Spill rivers of tears for our time is here now. Hear this now that
as one climbs nearer and finds the falsities of these deft wave
worms basking in prehistoric glow the more living itself stings.

Your torso, JK, made its way to Somalia, feeding pirates hungry
for BBQ. Your hands, minus the middle fingers, were found
bound in a Jewish temple. The left middle finger presented
itself to POTUS inside of a Big Mac the day he claimed your
life taken by rogue elements while the right rested next to a
spoon and knife at the dinner table of the Crown Prince MBS.

The kneecaps, the gears of your inquiries over many years
for the Washington Post, turned up in the shoes of Duterte
while your feet, not at all callused from real stories, dangled
as earmuffs from Kim Jong-un’s flattop. Your heart appeared
every night for 3 months during the northern lights in skies
above Iceland. Your Apple Watch was found in a pawnshop

in London’s West End, key to a truth buried beneath club beats.
Your penis was never recovered, nor the testes, for men like you
endanger power structures and therefore must not be allowed
to reproduce. Your forearms were found together, laced together
atop the loud dais inside the Supreme People’s Procuratorate
of China. Vertebrae from your broken spine were used as soup

bones for refugees fleeing Boko Haram while your ribs flavored
a broth for squeezed aboriginal tribes in Brazil. Left thigh
became the base of a projector table in Sierra Leone while
the right thigh provided balloon ballast for the abundance of hot
air rising from streets outside the Saudi consulate in Turkey
where you arrived, were taken, interrogated, summarily dismem-
bered, and put into small boxes for global distribution. But your
intestines, shredding themselves into ribbons and hairs of a tree
moss, lay a loose trail into our only online cloud where your
recorded screams drowned out an oily thunder. Water bound
you together, and your words float overhead, packaged and tied;

stay there until such time as the brotherly harems are disbanded,
are broken, are slit like the lamb and punched out like the dogs.

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SEAN J. MAHONEY lives with Dianne, her mother, two Uglydolls, and three dogs in Santa Ana, California. He works in geophysics. He believes in salsa, dark chocolate, and CBD.

The Coil

Literature to change your lightbulb.

Alternating Current Press

Written by

Indie press dedicated to lit that challenges readers & has a sense of self, timelessness, & atmosphere. Publisher of @CoilMag #CoilMag (http://thecoilmag.com)

The Coil

The Coil

Literature to change your lightbulb.

Alternating Current Press

Written by

Indie press dedicated to lit that challenges readers & has a sense of self, timelessness, & atmosphere. Publisher of @CoilMag #CoilMag (http://thecoilmag.com)

The Coil

The Coil

Literature to change your lightbulb.

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