At the edge of town, main street widens to a highway,
The highway climbs a hill, and from the hill’s bare top
The motorist sees what looks like a factory in the distance,
To its rear perhaps the digs the tired workers
Go back home to for the night. Seen more closely further on,
The factory is the maternity wing of the town’s brick hospital
That careless planning had backed against the tombs of an old graveyard.
Intrigued by this precarious adjacency,
The wayward thoughts fatigue and routine-driving host
Sober at what an inferior product the living body is,
How doomed to damage, quick to sickness, available for dying,
How short in contrast to its longings, and how strange
That hour by hour the world continues to produce it.
Jene Erick Beardsley was born and raised in Mount Vernon, New York. He graduated from the University of Illinois with an MA in English Literature and for over thirty-five years taught poetry at a small college in the Philadelphia suburbs. His poems have appeared in Verse Daily, Amherst Review, Sojourners, Fulcrum, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Green Mountains Review, Lullwater Review, South Carolina Review, Ibbetson Street Press, New Ohio Review, California Quarterly, Tribeca Review, New Letters, and many others.
--from the archives of The Broadkill Review
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