by Clay Cantrell

In moonlight wrecks the skin cries red
and Tony just cries. One spin of the truck
and the brute brakes. Then black paint
kisses Tony’s torso real hard. It’s scrap metal
mornings for outlaws who feel the sun
rising at dark, the menace of asphalt
cutting rugs down a holler. Switchback,
tree tops scratch our faces, a final
smack and Tony totters in scorches oil.
Skin sears thirty minutes until ether
pats the wounds. Flecks of blood
like pox on our cheeks. A week later
the junkyard pays three hundred bucks
for the hunk of metal that killed him.


Clay Cantrell received his MFA in poetry at the University of Memphis. In 2015, he moved to Tulsa to pursue a Ph.D. in Literature at the University of Tulsa. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Sycamore Review, New Delta Review, Birdfeast, The Journal and elsewhere, and his full-length manuscript, Hermit, Wraith, was recently a finalist for the St. Lawrence Book Award. Another collection, The Landfill Poems, will be published by Red Dirt Press in 2016. 

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