A wheel

saws through this median’s  
        amputated sod
             Burmese grass
                 American soil  
                 plot of the passenger
        my hands
type “I” before I do
        lie inanimately  
        off the vein
             upon the earth-black keys
                   in the light-shaft of a line-break
      stop that plow
           or I shan’t treat you
      to prairie scented lotion
chalked with eastern gamma seeds
         and powdered nettles of rattle-snake master

the flood beyond the meadow whitens sharper
                am I in water      do I care


then climb out the window
and into the irradiant
pearl’s dank clam-shell
of a world where night
only passes
burger by throat –
cow by road kill –
over the moon
and into the utter stench-
cloud of ocean blood
brothers lying in a bike-crash-
symbol. Night
Day in, Day out
of our hands-
on boss
was never given
a word to compound with
because of its lonely integrity
it wanted a near vegan
execution dinner-
plate of armor
smith, john.


James Eidson's work has appeared in Sixth Finch, H_NGM_N, Forklift, Ohio, Whiskey Island, Ampersand Review, ILK, Columbia Poetry Review, and Word Riot, among others. He also writes reviews for Make: A Chicago Literary Magazine. He lives in Chicago.