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  • Acid Rain
  • Amanda Hodes (bio)

my mother says        don't eat the snowand walk home with your keys        like this

recycled        sticky        uncleansedcontaminants syringed for the next generation

acid rain breaches someone else's scalpchemical runoff        in Beltzville Lake

acid rain        much like the boyfriendwho Chryslers home        on holidays

knows how to faux        conservative chiclicks potatoes off the whisk        makes everyone canned laughter

acid rain never announces itselfis all honey I don't see        what you're talking about

shadows siphoned into men        outside the tobacco shopno whistle        just watching

cycled        like my father ladles my motherinto his graze        jokes about having a wife

a right to        his new lessonsat the Rod & Gun Club        on weekends

all the things you don't want to seecan disappear        clear fluid        in a stream nobody knows

my feet slimy in undercurrent        bikini gluedto my chest        by littered water        pecked through [End Page 149]

with plastic        everything I push downalways comes back        upstream

follow each current to its clandestine disposala truck-bled frack site

untraceable droplets        eddied to menin cedar boardrooms        of highway hotels

non-disclosure agreements        greasing fingerprintsinto loopholes        like lassos        these men

such men        grabbing even waterby the profit [End Page 150]

Amanda Hodes

Amanda Hodes is a writer and sound artist. Her writing has appeared in Denver Quarterly, PANK, West Branch, and elsewhere. Her work has been supported and/or exhibited by the Banff Centre, Target Gallery, Arts Club of Washington, Sound Scene Festival, Koster Foundation, AUDIRE, and other venues. She has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia and is currently an MFA candidate at Virginia Tech.

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