"Clot I" by Edie Meade

Clot I

Say we all die by bloodclot, yearbook turned to mausoleum
no studies of our cohort, no fieldtrips with soft hands
or somber crayon rubbings over our names
a failure even of morbid curiosity. No fountains —
a generation too unacknowledged to be properly lost.
I have been thinking

the problem isn’t passion but its object.
A clot is the spot repair erred. Try this experiment:
Argue for change, just some minuscule adjustment
in the seams of the social shirt. See what ogre
awakens fist-first to defend the status quo.
Know thy adversary by what makes him spit.

Say this is how it ends. Incremental, insensible, mute.
Ultimately, photosynthesis fails. Only fungus
crawls along the prairie, gathering itself for the siege.
It scales the chapel. It rings the bell.
Senseless toll,
no words to sing along to & nobody to sing.

Edie Meade

Edie Meade is a writer, artist, and musician in Petersburg, Virginia. Recent work can be found in Invisible City, New Flash Fiction Review, Atlas & Alice, The Normal School, Pidgeonholes, Litro, Heavy Feather Review and elsewhere. She can be found on X @ediemeade, Instagram and Threads @edie_thee_meade, or (https://ediemeade.com/).

Headshot: Edie Meade

Photo Credit: Staff