The Boiler

Sarah Aronson

SEPARATE

Meanwhile,  the  Vietnamese   man  in  the  red
driver  cap  who  fries pork spring rolls  from  a
closet   in   Nugget   Mall   to   be  served  at  my
father’s   f i s h   hatchery   s e c o n d   wedding
reception  is  also  my  soccer  coach &  will one
day   b e  the  man  playing   ping   pong   in  the
driveway on my step-father’s table during  the
only   other   dry   day   in   April.   All   this   one
hundred   years  after  Soapy  Smith put  a   man
down  at the  wharf with a gunshot to the groin,
we   laugh,   my   brother   &   I   mishear  Johnny
Horton  croon  Russia’s own.  Eighty  years   after
the  Treadwell  Mine  caved-in  shoreward  from
where the Glory  Hole’s  wet pit of a mouth spat
up  gold  into  the  wheeling  pans  of sourdoughs.
Little   San    Francisco     ghost    artists   hammer
driftwood  into dinosaur skeletons on the single
sea  level  drive  ending  out  the road making in-
effect  an  island  of  a  town  with  one  escalator
but  half  a  dozen  poured  concrete  corrugated-
roof  echo chambers  for outdoor play because it
is  always  raining  &  since  our  suits are already
wet I  beg Jeannie to go inlet-swimming because
it  is  static  daylight  at  9pm  &  cloud  cartridges
of   rain   unload   only   making  the  ocean  seem
warmer.

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Sarah Aronson writes poetry from Missoula, MT where she will graduate with an MFA from the University of Montana this spring. Her work can be found in Cirque, Zymbol and the Portland Review.