New North Pole

by Jen Coleman

Birds will fall. Fish will, eyeless, surface.
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.


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.

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