Heart of my innermost doll-child;
heart of petit fours on a tray;
you are a bonfire upon which
children spit, waiting for their ride
back from the Museum of Science
and Industry, where they espy
an interactive coalmine, and
the U505 submarine, on display.
Upstart heart, totemic crow.
We await your circumspect vows.
We acknowledge your slow bleed.
We demand to know, are we the chosen:
will we be present when you’re crowned
Queen of Nuclear Fallout, secret weapon
of the late empire’s last lovers, détente.
The New Age
Virginia Konchan Click to read more...
Author of Vox Populi (Finishing Line Press, 2015) and Anatomical Gift (Noctuary Press, 2017), Virginia Konchan has been published in The New Yorker, The New Republic, The Believer, Best New Poets and elsewhere.