Kraft

By L. S. KLATT 

Permit me to apply these squares of American cheese to my spacesuit. Is it that I am a man? Or crazed? How will such a man make it in space, the consuming fire of reentry, & the joy of it? I am a fat man. American. Vienna sausages have always been sweet music to my fingers, yet the Germanics have done so much damage. Except the rocketeers who engineered the success of the American space program. And it was the Germans who are half- responsible for Ohio where Neil Armstrong was born. Could I advertise myself as a Kraft man, posting an American flag on the moon? Good question. Yes. But abetter one might be: what kind of heat shield would American cheese provide? It’s hard to believe that Ohio was once considered the Northwest Territory, that every small step west was a tap of the spacebar pitching us deeper into the shit. Frontiersmen wore leathers; what that did to their skin was barbaric. Yet Americans have come to occupy new worlds. BackspacefShiftiBackspacefShifti

New poems from L. S. Klatt have appeared or will appear in Birmingham Poetry Review, Copper Nickel, Carolina Quarterly, Crazyhorse, and Denver Quarterly. His collection of prose poems, The Wilderness After Which, is due out from Otis Books (Seismicity Editions) in 2017. 

[Purchase your copy of Issue 06 here]

Julia PikeKraft

Related Posts

Shadow on grass

Poetry by Iraqi Women in Translation

NADIA AL-KATIB
"Definitions"
My heart is a pear
your pocket can’t contain—
my heart is poorly
stored. It starts to rot.
My story? I’m a girl
tempted into
a wonderland.

poetry and democracy

April 2019 Poetry Feature: Jessica Lanay

JESSICA LANAY
We dampened the cool white sheets
throwing each other, knowing
we are both liars; we didn’t get
what we wanted: me—a chest
to shelter me for the night; you—
some reassurance that you had any
power at all in the world.
We awoke and love abandoned

Midwest city

Philosophical Flowers

RICHIE HOFMANN
The streets are named for German poets /  in my huge provincial Midwestern city. / Dust whirls up from the tires of passing cars, / lifting a veil over me, like Romantic longing. On Goethe, I want nothing / more than to reach down and feel a lover’s big skull