Virginia Konchan, “Picnic”

orange line


How the pedestrian becomes you.
How you become the pedestrian.
The premise gives way to myth,
then the whole molecular structure
of logic comes crashing down.
The years begin to careen past us,
a souped-up sports car with rims.
Remember the lake, I say. Remember
that summer we were in love with love, and gin.
We char the dogs. We eat watermelon and collect
the rinds. At the pinnacle of event you flex
your beauty: a late-night talk-show host, on speed.
And your better half in a hammock, milking
the distance between impulse and cognition.
Praise idleness, fire ants, failed marriages.
Praise the gingham cloth on which we feed.


Virginia Konchan is the author of Vox Populi (Finishing Line Press, 2015) and Anatomical Gift (Noctuary Press, 2017). Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Best New Poets, The Believer, and elsewhere. A cofounder of Matter, a journal of poetry and political commentary, she is an associate editor for Tupelo Quarterly.



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