This poem originally appeared in Issue No. 02 of Southlands. You can escape your screen and dive into a print version of the story by ordering a copy in our shop. And be sure to subscribe to receive Issues Nos. 03 & 04.
It's 7:04 in the morning,
and the bulldozers
are already covered
in the blood of red clay.
The time has arrived
for this mountain
to learn
what it means
to be American—
and have a “civic duty”
to sacrifice itself
for a gas station
and convenience store.
I’ve been watching
this slow slaughter
for months,
waiting for the chance
to rewrite this American dream.
But it’s already written
like a misspelled tattoo
I can’t afford to cover up.
So, I’ll just wait
for that gas station
to open—
then complete
my civic duty
by purchasing
a six-pack
every Friday night
for the rest of my life,
to ease the pain
of knowing
what used to be here.