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Escape to Nowhere
by Flower Conroy

YOU’D BE SURPRISED HOW FAST A FLYING PIG CAN FLY


My father rode a pterodactyl
& shot the last flying pig.
In his presence, quarters

would fall from my ears.
With a ‘poose’ he’d ill-
uminate the interior car

light; another ‘poose’
& it’d go dark. ‘Poose’ light;
‘poose’ dark. I think he

dwelled in dark. Even sheltered
in the snow-lit Pine Barrens,
a gun in his lap, dark

cocooned him. Would you
call it tortured? Stormy
nights our little family’d

drive onto the sand & watch
lightning impale ocean.
Soundtrack of thunder.

Shattering waves, radio
hollering, Have you ever seen
the rain, coming down?

Like a storm of glass. Once, while
hunting, my father spied with
his good blue eye, the Jersey

Devil skulking around
like a giant deer
& fired. The Devil

looked dead
at him before returning
into the heart

of the woods, its black veins,
its shadowed chambers, its
evergreen circulatory system.

When dusk collapsed
he made his way back
to the cabin. When he spoke

about what really happened
out there, he spoke about
grazing the Jersey Devil

with a silver bullet. Fear-
less. He rode a pterodactyl
into the side of a used car

lot, blinded by sun.
The last flying pig? That shot
was a shot of pure luck.

 
 
 
 

 

 
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