the Divide, the Valley, the Fault, the Sound

a bird’s territory, now only minutes across

giant hands pull at the gingerbread door

off the record, the variables are off the charts

these locusts wear their skeletons on the outside

a grove of osage orange grows up to be a fence

in the vegetable crisper, her bloodred corsage

step on a crack and break your mother’s heart

a boy has to ask what antagonism means

copper bulls eye the virgin prairie

the genius of the singing saw is lost on the hammer

on a liquor-sticky desk, jars stuffed with arrowheads

rows of men block out the sun in a salute

every shotgun has the same empty expression

buy your tickets for the cornfield maze


Ian Finch studied poetry at Victoria University, and he now works at the Carnegie Museum of Art in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His work has most recently appeared in The Adirondack ReviewDrunken Boat, and the Hogtown Creek Review.