In the old schoolhouse underneath the snow
a radiator hisses in the basement below
the stairs disappear into the smell of old sweat
lockers, lost combinations, seething and wet
shower floors, slick, but unused for fifty years
drops fall, a cadence, an empty light leers
we are fourth grade again, dare one another down,
against toe-bones that know better, resist the cold ground
what pulls at the Geiger is dread fully grown,
stuck at Chernobyl, freezing hot and alone.
what is that? A red dress, a woman’s white face
she is singing, off-key, at a slow, lurching pace
– Amy Alexander
Amy Alexander is a poet and writer living in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, with her husband and two kids. She grew up in the mountains of Colorado and found mine shafts to be the source of some of her biggest fears. Pretty much anything abandoned and industrial is scary to her. Her work has appeared in several journals including The Coil, Anti-Heroin Chic, Quarterly West, and The Cream City Review.