This Machine Kills Fascists
It’s not a well-loved folk musician’s guitar
It’s not a well-maintained AR-15 and 30 rounds of 5.56
It’s the moment when word becomes liquid
And fills the holes in your body
Drowns and blinds and deafens you with a truth
That snuck into you like an assassin
Quiet and potent like hashish and venom
Filling your lungs and veins
With revelation
With the knowledge, cloaked and slouching
Out of the apocalypse
That I love you
That we are the same
Noah Soltau teaches about art, literature, and society to the mostly-willing. He is Managing Editor of The Red Branch Review. His most recent work appears in Eunoia Review, SBLAAM, Still: The Journal, and elsewhere. He lives and works in East Tennessee.
The Marbled Sigh 