Week 1: February 2019

Maraca Massacre. By Katie Sachs

When I look at the middle of my maraca,
My imagination legitimizes this:

A middle-aged moniker
Of someone stuffy - like an Eloise
Or a Herald -
Running across a field
And frantically felling
All of the feelings
They had been keeping in cages
For the entirety of their dusty existence.

Their ribs get ripped out of their racist rhomboids
Their bones become fashioned
Into classy clavichords.
​
In the future. Sometime, undisclosed. 
New age aliens will discover them - 
After the humans have long been gone - 
And in the steamy sludge of the
Apocalyptic stench
They will play
The hottest Jazz
You ever fucking heard.