Photo by Wayan Susila
I sit in front of the screen
in the short shadow of a long year.
Facebook familiars post their days:
triumphs, fails, foods, pets,
spreading likes like germs,
expelling platitudes like gas,
while the streets rattle with old rage
revived by the ceaseless young
with their chants and stones.
Go back to Jamestown to find the source
or further if you’re scholar enough,
to the sugar trade in the Indies.
Follow all roads to the ancients
then go back further still. There’s
iniquity enough to turn all the deserts red,
to chart paths for sharks through
oceans and centuries, teeming
scars of the slave trade.
Some say the blood trails
are myths spread like plasma
through brine, but that’s no bar
to grievance-crammed boys,
enamored more with death than
the girls who used to snatch their hearts.
The screen pixelates with pop-ups,
Which Vintage Movie Are You,
fat singers astonishing waxy panels.
The boys pump their arms and take revenge
on fathers they never knew, their vague wild eyes
seeing only black and flashing blue.
Alec Solomita’s fiction has appeared in, among other publications, The Adirondack Review, The Mississippi Review, Southwest Review, and Ireland’s Southword Journal. Recently, he’s published poetry in 3Elements Literary Review, Literary Orphans, Silver Birch Press, Turk’s Head Review, Algebra of Owls, Driftwood Press, and, forthcoming, Sourland Mountain Review and Fulcrum: An International Anthology of Poetry and Aesthetics. He lives in Somerville, Massachusetts.