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There Is No Middle Ground

Hedda jammed chip clips in her hair
rubbed her scabs with sour balls
raised welted hands to the moon
whistled away the room’s sewage smears
the vining prickles       the hardened loam

She got all emotional
in the van       by the teakettle       filled with margarine
here in Hades       with its clear view       of the Earth
with all its elk       and the Yessirs       and the orchids
and the galoshes       and the prisons       and the walnuts

Here, the food goes in       the food goes out
Hedda chewed up the abacus
she chewed up her fingers
this       her run-on sentence
the rapture sits idly by

 
 
 

Holly Burdorff is an MFA candidate at the University of Alabama. Her poems can be found in recent & forthcoming issues of Dialogist, Handsome, Pear Drop, and Ostrich Review.