Dylan Fettig – Three Poems

Dylan Fettig

Three Poems

Egg, Sort of

In some regions, early wood from the spring season is gathered and stewed in the stomach of a volunteer. This is the origin of that old nugget, “adolescent enthusiasm will cause knots.” They learn too late that the robe of an elder’s favor cannot hide the fire scars, nor the imbalance of past ecologies.

Of course, no one is buying it. This generation can’t understand that what you’re selling … is yourself. And without that protective paraffin layer, ring structure might fall victim to the pulping from ant galleries. There is nothing left to do but collect the resultant “frass” for use as fuel.

The Future of Our Malls

Over the summer, I’m just going to lie here eating maize. In the dewy light of dawn, try and find us a spot where we might stack the cobs. There, look, down at the foot of an osprey’s nesting tower—and I can see the osprey now—and our associate supervisor, in her roost!

Without the traffic runoff from a well-attended anchor store, the shelves of the smaller fronts have gone barren. Any number of predatory birds pick at their talons in the dark alcoves, greedy for moon-rocks at closeout prices. I begged you never to invest in that luxury rubbish.

Unclear on the Concept

Allegations of a media psy-ops attack generate buckets of fan mail addressed to the accused, who has asked preemptively for a final dish of jellied orange rind. It all seems like a classic case of, “the floor was dirty/ so I washed it.” That surge and stagger like Frankenstein’s bowling team—Oh, take this generous hand and sway no more.


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