Gregory Lawless
State Flag
We’re sick of stars, so
there are only three
staggering overtop
a single ash tree.
It should be brown,
but the background’s only
green. (Green water,
green sky. Green birds
and girls in the tedious
fields.) We like to watch it
buckle and snap
over an office park
or a burger joint―
it has something to do
with hunger, something
with work. Best I can tell,
when you put your hand
over your heart
in front of it, it’s a test
of some sort. But who knows
what you’re supposed
to feel.
State Flower
It’s a color we won’t
discuss. The shape drips up-
right from a seam
between two fists
of stone. A marbled
spider knits nets
of crosses on the stippled
crown. He catches whatever’s
flying down. It’s not enough
to see it and see it
dying through the fall.
There’s something always
over about it, even
when it breaks
the ground. I’d do anything
not to talk about it,
which is why I talk
about it now.
State Bird
Doesn’t sing, just sits
and shivers a wire
between a pair
of broken poles.
Sometimes he spirals down
to a cage of grass
where he snipes
at spastic gnats. He eats
better than he ought.
His wings wring an inch
of color from
the russet weather,
white threadwork
and some shattered
orange. Bigger birds
will eat him when
they bother. In the mean-
time, we watch
him not watching
out. He’s small, and kind
of pretty, and always lucky
until he’s not.
Gregory Lawless is the author I Thought I Was New Here (BlazeVOX, 2009) and Foreclosure (Back Pages Books, 2013). His poems have appeared in such places as sixth finch, La Petite Zine, Gulf Stream, The Journal, The National Poetry Review, Pleiades, and Third Coast.
Return to January 2014 Edition
We’re sick of stars, so
there are only three
staggering overtop
a single ash tree.
It should be brown,
but the background’s only
green. (Green water,
green sky. Green birds
and girls in the tedious
fields.) We like to watch it
buckle and snap
over an office park
or a burger joint―
it has something to do
with hunger, something
with work. Best I can tell,
when you put your hand
over your heart
in front of it, it’s a test
of some sort. But who knows
what you’re supposed
to feel.
State Flower
It’s a color we won’t
discuss. The shape drips up-
right from a seam
between two fists
of stone. A marbled
spider knits nets
of crosses on the stippled
crown. He catches whatever’s
flying down. It’s not enough
to see it and see it
dying through the fall.
There’s something always
over about it, even
when it breaks
the ground. I’d do anything
not to talk about it,
which is why I talk
about it now.
State Bird
Doesn’t sing, just sits
and shivers a wire
between a pair
of broken poles.
Sometimes he spirals down
to a cage of grass
where he snipes
at spastic gnats. He eats
better than he ought.
His wings wring an inch
of color from
the russet weather,
white threadwork
and some shattered
orange. Bigger birds
will eat him when
they bother. In the mean-
time, we watch
him not watching
out. He’s small, and kind
of pretty, and always lucky
until he’s not.
Gregory Lawless is the author I Thought I Was New Here (BlazeVOX, 2009) and Foreclosure (Back Pages Books, 2013). His poems have appeared in such places as sixth finch, La Petite Zine, Gulf Stream, The Journal, The National Poetry Review, Pleiades, and Third Coast.
Return to January 2014 Edition