Zack Carson

Grunge Orphans

Hands threaded in so tightly together, we

lock and fashion all these fingers into

the arrow’s tip and aim it at the moon.

We’re finished trying to outpace the night

and its long seasons of gas station

loneliness, ATM silhouettes, and

nosediving through the wet floors of cage houses—

we want a day that stays brighter later.

We form a star of hands and hope it lifts.

Over my palm I feel my brother’s palm,

painted in callus from a decade of

swinging hammers. Under my palm I feel

another brother, fingers heavy with

years of stolen rings. A third hand taped up

for the prizefight, a fourth formed out of skin

grafts. Palm of the acrobat, palm of the

tarot reader, palm of a girl—all

brothers. I recognize the textures

of safety in this clutch of rough hands.

We rise above Dollar Tree graveyards.

The chainlink of our star burns and advances.

Nico Rosberg 2016 WDC

Abstinent, I streamline everything.

I get surgical on the racing suit,

cut it slimmer. The gloves are custom—I tear

out the liners (too heavy). I scrape all

the paint off the helmet. The margins

so fine, every gram counts. I strip down

to fighting weight. Everything must go.

Dehydration's claustrophobic heat might burn

some mass. Who knows if it will be enough.

I quit the running, let the muscles fade, watch

myself turn lighter. I'm thinned in my mirrors,

human razor wire shifting through gears.

Bird of prey. Fastball special. Hunter-

killer. I don't recognize this panther

under my face. Teenage sensitivity,

kid shyness, I had to husk all that.

I did not know the name or the size

of the prowler underneath, if he was

even there. But a growl purred in my voice:

take this saddle off. Let’s go ballistic.

So I made space for that new animal

and in my meditations, I blacken

the sun's eye. At the top of the mountain,

I ask who's next. I spit in the face of your

best racer. I put the whole world on blast:

who else wants a shot at the title?

Born soaked under the tears of rage,

I haul this dream out from the earth like a stone.

Zack Carson is a poet and musician from Asheville NC, currently working towards an MFA at the University of North Carolina Wilmington. His work has been published in Passages North, BRUISER, and Maudlin House, among others. Check out www.ZackCarson.com and step inside.