by Loisa Fenichell
In a gas station, geography of the southwest is like an infant’s
birthday party, easy to get lost in its muck. Vital element
of the landscape is that my torso is always nailed to the wind.
I walk past the dollar store, empty, & marvel at its committee:
flamingo hats; glasses for late nights only; t-shirts with pictures
of New York-style bagels. I want a collection. I collect for nobody.
My bedroom requires a knock on the door.
In a diner, the mountains steeple outside the glass window. Saguaros
flinch across my tongue. I step into my car, where Elizabeth Cotten
sings through the stereo. When I close my eyes, she is sitting just next
to me. I have dreams in which the boy I will love also cried the day
Pete Seeger died & then forget that Seeger is no longer here to see
global fright as it exists today. When stepping into a park, I see a man
holding a banjo. I laugh, ecstatic, & am the only one to do so.
Loisa Fenichell holds a BA from SUNY Purchase College, where she studied Creative Writing and Literature. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in various publications, such as Winter Tangerine Review, Porridge Magazine, The Nervous Breakdown, and Sundog Lit. Her debut collection, ‘all these urban fields,’ was published by nothing to say press July of 2019. She is an MFA candidate at Saint Mary’s College of California.