SOUTHERN LEGITIMACY STATMENT: Landon Whitley was born in North Carolina in 1996, just like The Dead Mule. Over twenty seven years, he saw Union County turn from the home of duck-tape bandaids to the county with the highest average income in NC. Today, less than a third of the greater-Charlotte population was born somewhere state lines: a fact that he became privy to while hosting ice-breakers in his classroom. He was happy however that this meant he was no longer the only Jew in school.
Three Poems
Undomesticated Fronds of Poodles
Humans preceded the German pudel,
which were selected out of wolves
with strong backs and water-resistant curls
for plucking ducks from ponds.
Eventually, they were siphoned off again,
for cuteness, into a teacup.
Sometimes, I think
about all the dainty paws
that would never see a field
without us. A lifetime supply,
locked away on a concrete floor.
But sometimes, I like to think
of all the teacup poodles in the world,
decades after we’re gone
bouncing through a prairie of dandelion grass.
Whole Who-villes of puffs
clinging to their coats.
They remind me
of my two miniature dachshunds,
though really, my parents’,
but mine, like how all fortunate children
own everything their parents love.
Bonnie and Clyde.
Black and red.
Never saw a leaf before our lawn.
Two puppies that fit in one hand,
more rabbit-rat than dog,
teeter-tottering through a grass jungle
with an oak leaf the size of each torso in tow.
Now, they’re older,
still running, seesawing,
churning puffs of leaves.
These beautiful abominations that I love.
A reminder of what we’ve dragged into this mess,
of the absurd relics that’ll be our legacy
in what fertile corners we leave.
Where the Boardwalk Ends
I’m afraid of the ocean,
especially high tide.
There’s no one playing in the sand
and waves never break or barrel,
only rise and ebb lower
stretching at the beachgrass.
I was frightened,
the smell of salty mist,
and I wanted to be stone,
because stones don’t move.
I wonder how often, young,
lost, I made something up
that later turned true.
Ghosts danced around the moonbeams,
singing their siren song.
I wanted to be rock,
and I saw the face of a tree:
its nose in a shade of driftwood.
It sounds like the hours of life I’ve lost
standing in front of a mirror.
I think I know why they build houses on stilts.
Summer Nights
A dulled mason jar,
lid sprouted with holes,
and yellow ghosts in the backyard.
I ran after them,
clapping hands around their wings
and peeking into my clasp.
Inside, a beacon whispers in my eye,
and I trap it in the cloudy jar.
I didn’t know how to keep them alive,
so I let them go before dawn.
