Lost by Nic Alea

The fields were golden, no actually golden,

gold bars melted

to form one

sprawling field and Arthur Russell pushed mounds of clay into bales of wheat,




we stared out the car window,

our necks made of straw and cinder, you lit our



the fields all glowing like matchsticks,

the sea wind moving us along,

dead wallaby’s on the side of the road.

I pull over to let us both cry,

that is

somehow significant to the ways we unzip and walk out of our bodies.


I hope it will rain today on the long drive, it is much too dry

and the grazing cattle have

gold dust rimmed on their mouths,

I want to lick off that color of wealth,


it does not burn holes.




Nic aleaNic Alea is a Bay Area based queer/trans* poet and educator. Nic co-hosts the open mic the New Shit Show which focuses on the production of new work. Nic has been published in Word Riot, kill author, the Evergreen Review, and Muzzle Magazine and is a 2012 Lambda LiteraryFellow and a semi finalist in Button Poetry’s chapbook competition for Sad Boy Slumber Party. You can find poems and other thoughts at nicalea.tumblr.com.

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