That smell that takes me back
to the rigid Virginia valleys
hidden deep within the map
where the generations gather
and the wind carries the laughter
the flowing waters pass me by
and constellations flood the sky
the birds are glee and sing to me
a celebration song
since when I leave I’m always free
to return to where I belong
picture me, picturing you
through a lens no one has seen you through before
loving you as you are
not fasting for who you could become
my faith in you is not drained by your mistakes
but simply built up by the certainty
that you will try not to make the same ones
more than once
you understand effort
picture me, picturing you
as if your grey days only complement
the shadows of the lightning
in our atmosphere
not create an absence of color
we all have a scarcity of the rainbow inside of us
I love you still
picture me, picturing you
as a distant star in the
midnight sky
you have a way about you that
makes your simplicity magnified
you’re an iceberg that seems so faint
from above the deep
but is miles long and acres wide
from underneath the barrier of sea level
to the world you may seem
like just a floating speck of a
withering light way out in the universe
but I have been sucked in by the aptitude
of the flames of who you really are
I could never put you out
picture me, picturing you
as the first rush of the autumn breeze
creating a chill along the outskirts of my body
only to find that once I am invited inside
I will be heated to the core
you are not as you seem
picture me, picturing you
as the blood pounding through
the streets under my skin
that keep me alive
there is always the panic that
a vein could close up overnight
or my heart could leave me lonely
you are the oxygen
that rushes in to my lungs
like a gang of wild elk
and overpowers any other force
that could keep me from breathing
you keep your word
picture me, picturing you
as a full moon
in the dead of October
sending a shiver of adrenaline
up the nape of my neck
for you I am nocturnal
like a wolf pinching a cigarette
between its teeth
I fear drifting off in to a sleep
missing a moment of your thrill
now picture me
when my love comes to you
as a river running rampant
never slowing down, never ceasing to flow
you are not sure from where the river begins
all you need to trust is that
it never runs out
Snow white windmills turn lazily on
the mountain top, typically blocked by haze.
Mountains form a giant sloping bowl.
Some people call it nuclear soup
others say we are protected by a bubble, radioactive.
Go to Hill Top when the sun goes down, where Joey’s vigil took place.
There the city’s lights outshine the stars above.
A forgotten city amongst the trees, tucked
down in the mountains.
The city’s borders never move an inch.
This poem is excerpted from “The Manhattan Project,” a chapbook manuscript depicting the locale and history of Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Known as “The City Behind the Fence” and “The Secret City,” Oak Ridge was the home of the atomic bomb and about 30,000 citizens of multigenerational families: a city laid in the shadow of the horrific events from World War II. Using found information, reference material, and personal narrative, the poems from this manuscript have been constructed to detail the city’s history, mystery and cynicism. The speaker’s voice is the voice of the city.
NOVUS Literary and Arts Journal
Lebanon, TN
