A Poem by Megan J. Arlett

Megan J Arlett

Megan J. Arlett

Megan J. Arlett was born in the UK, grew up in Spain, and now lives in New Mexico. The recipient of two Academy of American Poets Prizes, her work has appeared in Best New Poets 2019, Best New British and Irish Poets, Gulf Coast, The Kenyon Review, New England Review, Passages North, and Prairie Schooner, among others.


after “Woodlake Assembly” by Julian Francolino


No hills here except in the galleries
where the oils hold the only bodies
of water for miles in any direction.
I thirst. I reach for my own edges.
Thirty miles southwest, we drive
through what could only be a ghost
town. What is a ghost but an echo
of where people have been?
The gas station a shell.


When I look to the edge of town,
I see yellow, green, and grey.
It will not make me stay.
Last night we burned wood bought
from a man thirty miles away.
We drank apple juice warmed
with cinnamon sticks. The small dumb dog
tried to eat the flames.
When I asked where you thought we would be
in five years you said: something like this,
but not here.