The Maynard
Spring 2016

annie ross

box cars paper plates


clay dishes. stacked.
heavy as a pile of flat, wide, river stones.

as i wash a plate, Sasquatch turns beach Rocks
Barnacles, gooey little beings, midnight morsels
during her hungry, lonesome moods.

our hands are wet.

she watches Moon’s pass, knowing soon, homecoming
Tide will bring Jellyfish,
Seaweed and Salt.

stacks of dishes, slippery with grease
speak to me as if from dark Ocean’s shores, bright Driftwood
covered in Lichens, wet Moss, and tiny little blue Mussels.

i see you, Partiers.
i know you think you know what i am
but i have these visions as i sequester myself, washing
dear ghosts' dishes.


playing cards, twin to paper plates
both dealt at a table, without any type of plan.
paper faces costumed heavily.
high stakes meat, fruit, bread.

every new game needs a new deck.
another pack opened, filled, and thrown away
again. again.
tomorrow’s hunger, not a part of this
game. never show your cards to your neighbor.
no one wants to reveal
what is really going on.

there is so much to eat, we carry it in trains.
so much for some humans, paper plates multiply from machines.
as Forests, oh, poor Forests—

Desert says, didn’t we always speak of these things?
Sasquatch never pretended to be anything other than
what she is.

undrinkable Water in tables, alkaline(d) chemical fertilizers.
factory foods stores—
drive, enter, leave; drive, enter, leave.

when Desert told us, take care,
she meant, of everything.

Sasquatch’s basket can’t be wide enough
despite her massive hands

for the starvation time.

paper plates
box cars