MARISA LAINSON
Hypothetical Disasters
1. The fire hops the 405, the sky
is never blue again
1. The fire hops the 405, the sky
is never blue again
Sunset purls Lake Fayetteville golden. The margin punctuated with goslings
land spreads / & there is no hilt for hands / to bend mines
the whale washed up on the beach in monte hermoso, dead
Santa Ana season. Some construction crew up in Sherman Oaks.
Thus ma added grass to her name
the blue sweep of that lyric, calling everything back–
Horses, capable of deep knowing, stride alongside animate eyeglasses, mysterious flecks of trash, and coy, almost-ever-present lawnmowers.
I will never make a child, no matter how many moons with their obligatory nights
Suddenly, it felt, everyone was deploying to Africa