This poem is taken from Stand 216, 15(4) December 2017 - February 2018.

Matt Howard Poem
The Blizzard of Birth and Death
 
I don’t want to think any more  
         of the one night in May
                    when we were slowed to a crawl  
                              as we crossed the Ebro,

or the headwind of that gale;  
         mayflies on the wing,
                    mating in their silken millions,  
                              drawn up from the river

to the slick of streetlamps
         on smooth, dark asphalt  
                    and each egg laid in vain.
                              But I keep imagining

our two shadows behind  
         every wave, each squall
                     and pulse of wiper blades,  
                              the smear of chitin
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