Lindsey Webb's work has been published in Inscape: A Journal of Literature and Art,
Ishaan Literary Review, and elsewhere. She currently lives and studies in Utah, USA.


If the silvery gods of unregulated interstate commerce have any balls/ovaries in their undercarriages whatsoever they can one say it to my face and two say it to the real people who they hurt like my grandmother who believed in their like saintly animal-shit integrity like she believed in like Jesus or something except more than Jesus because she believed not that they would come back but that they had never left and plus they had my grandfather in tow. So you can go to hell, Holden's Holdings LLC, for sacrificing my grandfather to your golden calf gods and thereupon sacrificing my grandma even though she still breathes around like she doesn't know and my ma who drinks coffee from a company white elephant mug that says "You've Earned It!" and me I guess having to wash that mug every breakfast.


I met a voodoo bassist out in Kansas in a blizzard in a basement
full of jazz freaks and college kids hoping to get warm
and he called me baby as he leaned against the wall

which leaned against the wind which leaned against the moon,
sanding its face, shedding light outside
and the band played some.

He pulled the weather into a hot rubber band,
strings all unraveling and I thought the whole block must be steam by now

and later on he walked me home in the loud snow, and I said
it's Phrygian out here
because I wanted to tell him I got it, and he laughed, and he got it,

and we made out wet-shoed in the entryway and after he left he still tasted
like dark corners
and in the morning I looked at the rug and saw four shoe prints
which stared at each other all morning until they were suddenly gone mid afternoon

In Jacmel I was a Dog

round the robin and low in the ribcage
I burn that
bottle bust on concrete on the dirt in the light burning. Me
towards drinking the thin
film on the formerly asphalt off the formerly asphalt tastes like blood
in the nose here kids
kicking a grapefruit around white lights in the rind friends in the who get out of
color find the loud shade lick the hot wet
stinging on which paw with what black tongue

Christmas, by Accident

As the result of a mischievous miswiring there's Mr. Healy, chucking
out his door the flaming pine garland, burning
up his lawn. So goes Christmas once again with the turning
year in a small electrical blaze, and there's his orange mouth pluming,
his cheeks a little drunk, his voice a scrum of magpies shooting
off into the dark from behind the fence where we sit unbenevolent and watching,
we the neighbor kids joyful and triumphant with Mr. Healy kneeling
in his wooly yard with the pine smoke and electricity romping
away from the sweet holiday.

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