New North Pole
by Jen Coleman
Birds will fall. Fish will, eyeless, surface.
Jen Coleman's work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in The Southeast Review, New Welsh Review, Buddhist Poetry Review, Vinyl Poetry, and elsewhere. She earned her MFA from Hollins University and currently teaches at Lynchburg College.
The illuminated city below knows
nothing—the sun at a strange angle,
an angle to which we must adjust
or deny. And so, revolutions
will metastasize. Airplanes will require
reconfiguration. Without warning.
We've known—maybe, in our cells, for years—
and have submitted to the shift. This, too,
is a result. Or: in your white room's
clandestine cataclysms, far above
civil structures shining with aftermath,
we surmise happily, obliviously,
that our language itself has done it—
this magnetism incarnate, striving
electrons which, where they find home, go.
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