Assistant Editor Andy Sia: In Alex Wells Shapiro’s “a buck,” the voice confronts death, specifically the material reality and circumstances of death. Death, as Shapiro reminds us, is rarely neutral, but is rather the “squishy” aftermath of a man-made system. While the framing of the poem widens at the end and takes on a kind of cosmic proportion, the poem refuses easy transcendentalism, opting for the difficult experience of remaining with the world.
Listen to Shapiro read the poem:
Text:
I lock eyes with a buck head sticking
out from the bottom of a stinking road-
kill pile at my bus stop. In high school
I got a tattoo of similar anthers across
my chest modeled after the unbound,
yawning pair from that famous cave
painting in France, and meticulously curated
my personality in defense of that decision.
His bulged eyes emasculate me.
It took a trucker’s systematic exhaust
and a grid meant for machines to snuff
his life out, squishy as the aftermath
is. Flight is more noble than my dormancy. He knew
he couldn’t fight the sky. I’ll die of the air he fled.
Have you seen what surrounds us? In sun-
light dust ash and pollen float with
the clarity of suburban stars. It’s paralyzing.
Alex Wells Shapiro is a poet living in Chicago. He serves as poetry editor for Another Chicago Magazine, and cocurates Exhibit B: A Literary Variety Show. He is the author of Insect Architecture (Unbound Edition, 2022), and Gridiron Fables (Bottlecap Features, 2022). Find more of his work at www.alexwellsshapiro.com.
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