After Penelope Pelizzon
He has always been freakish and tragic,
especially here, among the scowling birds
of the slow-frying boonies. Freakish were
the eyes, one blue, one green, and the floater
darting about the left field. Tragic is the increasing
fray of already gauzy pockets. Freakish
was the echoing racket from the poltergeist
behind indifferent red hills. His attempt
to make its acquaintance was tragic,
staggering about and calling out to the rocks.
Freakish is the first car to round the bend
in four days. Tragic, the emerging yellow
paint of a Pontiac. Still, he jerks his
thumb in freakish fashion. What is tragic
are the barrels of dust sent by engine revving away.
Freakish was chasing after, shoelaces beginning to unravel.
Because he is so freakish, he looks into beady black
bird eyes and thinks yes, yes, I’ll cook ‘em.
Freakish, tragic, freakish, and tragic, he gazes out
into the simmering heat waves of the dessert pan.
Sharada Vishwanath is an undergraduate student at Johns Hopkins University studying Public Health and Writing. From Central Massachusetts, she loves gardening, rock climbing, and anything else outdoors.