Mudlark No. 48 (2012)


What’s in a tin can anymore, milk container, last week’s
dribbled talk down a plastic cup? Or this broken adjective
that used to be Toscano wine, a kind of brown vision in clear
glass. This hail to thee with last year’s expiration date I’m 
dropping into a half-empty dumpster. A bit of rot in the air, 
something sour, though we’ve flattened all our cardboard 
boxes, sent them sailing, delivery confirmed—all that love 
taken apart in the kitchen, exposing gleaming gadgets:      
a grandma’s note, an aunt’s demur, a sister’s once-used 
vaporizer. Isn’t this about sharing? The cleaned-out, too 
gingery salad oil bottle? The twice laundered mat for 
a shelter’s cats, the big dogs who frighten God Himself     
who made them not thinking? Life folding inward like
containers nesting into each other, all appetite heaved away.  

John Allman | Sadness
Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)