Inheritance

By BRIAN SIMONEAU

 
Watch where now we walk: city shuttered from its own
past, abandoned tracks replaced with mulch and gravel
 
trails coursing through a park of imported forest
the way original sin veins every future.

 
Given choice, let’s follow the snake who understood
nothing’s good as its promise, every deception
 
possible only when still we fail to notice
what stink survives beneath the shine, still so willing
 
to lose ourselves to bliss. See: each path leading in
also leads out, exile the end of every road.

 

 

[Purchase Issue 19 here.] 

Brian Simoneau is the author of the poetry collection River Bound. His second collection, No Small Comfort, is forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press in 2021. His poems have appeared in Boston Review, The Cincinnati Review, Colorado Review, Crazyhorse, Four Way Review, The Georgia Review, Mid-American Review, Salamander, Third Coast, and other journals. Originally from Lowell, Massachusetts, he lives near Boston with his family.

Inheritance

Related Posts

A hospital bed.

July 2024 Poetry Feature: Megan Pinto

MEGAN PINTO
I sit beside my father and watch his IV drip. Each drop of saline hydrates his veins, his dry cracked skin. Today my father weighs 107 lbs. and is too weak to stand. / I pop an earbud in his ear and keep one in mine. / We listen to love songs.

Image of a sunflower head

Translation: to and back

HALYNA KRUK
hand-picked grains they are, without any defect, / as once we were, poised, full of love // in the face of death, I am saying to you: / love me as if there will never be enough light / for us to find each other in this world // love me as long as we believe / that death turns a blind eye to us.

many empty bottles

June 2024 Poetry Feature: New Poems by Our Contributors

KATE GASKIN
We were at a long table, candles flickering in the breeze, / outside on the deck that overlooks the bay, which was black / and tinseled where moonlight fell on the wrinkled silk / of reflected stars shivering with the water.