Brandon Shane May 2024
In December, I opened the windows,
and let the frost in. Birds were nowhere
to be heard, let alone seen; a cardinal nest
abandoned by a bedside tree,
which reminded me how the local church
had been knocked down for a chain store,
which then closed due to lack of business;
like a poorly tied boat, the rope snaps
and it begins to drift away.
The red barn collapsed from weight
of a generational blizzard, but the wood
was getting rickety, and none had savings
for repair. Footprints were abundant,
like scribbles on a boring assignment,
an old car covered by a tarp.
One day, the roof made good conversation
with the second floor, and their relationship
had moved to the basement,
which meant everything between
had been destroyed,
built before the great depression,
which I felt
was an apt description
for just about
everything.
Brandon Shane is a poet, born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can see his work in the Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Sophon Lit, Marbled Sigh, RIC Journal, Heimat Review, Ink in Thirds, Discretionary Love, among others. He would later graduate from Cal State Long Beach.
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