The Autobiography of Engine Joseph

i am a pair of moccasins pitter pattering

through the quiet forest. the forest is quiet

and it is green, and the stream runs quick

and silver and freezing it is on my face

bathing in the woods. my skin wet and

dark and in closing my eyes there is a

woman, whose horns slide out and curl

above her small ears: they are bone coils

and they are antlers but not of the deer

nor the moose nor the antelope, but of

the demon. i am sure they are of some

burning body. some set of lungs that breathe

and hiss like striking a match in the midwestern

winters, when the sun leaves for months.

and steel takes its position. the sun is the

center of the universe and it is orange and

combusting suspended, and I leave for months

in the midwestern winter. i remember a night.

i was younger. my skin still stretched tight.

i was sleeping in yellow knife. in the sleeping

bag, i was a caterpillar. a truck drove up and

idled in front of me for a minute or so, and

pulled away,

and everything changed. i felt everything change.

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Colin de Chardin McKay currently lives in Minneapolis, sometimes Chicago, where he writes full time, or whatever.