from Primer


The chemical transformations never fix into gold. They yield only another clipped toenail, more peach cobbler at Golden Corral. A mix-up in the DNA, a lop in the helix. “I, I, I,” becomes a series of parallel lines, then “zzz.” Near morning, the pattern reverses. Dentist appointments, insurance payments—get these behind you. If it travels fast enough, an arrow will reach the speed of light. Then things will be like in Star Trek when the Enterprise goes into warp speed: space as separation will nearly vanish. Utter speed, utter immobility, merge. Now and then you practice at some red lights.

Mark Cunningham received an MFA from the University of Virginia, and he still lives in the Charlottesville area. Poems have appeared in Rhino, Paragraph, and Tarpaulin Sky; a larger selection, of poems on parts of the body, is on the Mudlark website.