Johnstown

This is the poem I wrote for the Johnstown Poet Laureate contest. They’re announcing it at 1 PM on November 3rd, hosted on https://www.poetjohnstown.com/

By no means do I want anyone calling me by my birth name, but know that if Karter Hochstein wins, I’ll be celebrating with an ungodly amount of caffeine.

A town sits cold and rainy

Looked down upon by a rich many.

What's left of the flood prior,

Born from the ash of a coal fire,

A phoenix will rise in Allegheny.

A city of forests and potholes

With severely lacking payrolls,

Dominated by two golden arches

And yearly, motorcycle marches.

The city of unrealized souls,

Waiting to divert expectations.

Bronzeflesh

“Francium, I must ask, what inspired you to do this? To… convert our dear friend, Grimmy?”

She wiped oil from her face and reached for her red lipstick. The gold and ebony automaton sat, lifeless. An engraved helmet matched the flowing, blonde hair Grimmy once had, with ebony markings mimicking her intense black eyeliner and lipstick. It resembled my old friend, but that was creeping me out, rather than comforting me.

The two were sisters named for their parents’ countries of origin, France and Germany. France later took to being called Francium when she got her PhD in the sciences, and Germany took up Grimmy as she became a storyteller, inspired by the Brothers Grimm. She sat in silence, applying the lipstick. Her gray hair fell like ink.

“France.”

“Byron, I have the secret to immortality here. I’ll use it as I will.” She has a defense before I have the accusation.

“So, you’re choosing to create metallic sarcophaguses instead of coffins? Death exists for a good reason. Without end, there is not-”

“I work with metal and chemicals, not the arts.”

“You designed these-” She presses her finger to my lips.

“Design isn’t an art. It’s a necessity.” Her finger wriggles away from my face.

I glare at her and roll my eyes. “You’ve always had a defense. Always a reason to interrupt. Always something that makes your point better. What are you, a god? Well, God, can’t you just let the dead lie?”

“Are you serious?” She stands up, resting her arm on the automaton. “You insult me, then you bring it back to your original point? Who are you, Rohan?”

“Rohan, your old partner in crime and my depressing editor. Is he a robot, too? Do you have one of me in the storage closet? Have you made yourself a death portrait out of your horrid metals?”

She extended her hand up as if to slap me, then reached down into her pocket. Out came a pen- Grimmy’s old one, the “Dove’s Heaven” as she called it. It was silver, and spurted out glittery ink. It was beloved by all who read her drafts. On the very top, a white, ivory dove sat. For a moment, I could forget Francium, and remember only Grimmy. “She wanted it to be with another storyteller. I only know a poet.”

In a rush of confusion, my anger is pushed away. “You’re giving me her pen?”

“This is why you’re here. The only reason I called you.”

She extends her hand, gently grasping the pen. I reach out and grab it in a violent, excited motion.

“Now get out. Your existence in my home insults me.”

Giddily, I leave, eyeing the grandfather clock on the way out. I turn to admire the old Victorian mansion I loved at some point- knowing I’d refuse to visit again. I rush down Cambrale Street, hoping to catch my train. Without giving a second thought, I rush through crowds of well-dressed and sick or drunk folks, knowing full well it was Friday and I should be in one of the two boats.

The coal train begins to shift as I jump aboard and produce a dollar coin from my pocket. The countryside, an hour away from Pittsburgh, was beautiful. My only wish is that I was going to Pittsburgh and not to another train station to get back home.

Walking down the train car, I don’t see a single open seat. On top of that, there’s a family of unruly kids and uncaring parents. Good, a bad time to complain to my cats back home about. Without thinking, I do as I would with any other pencil: I place the eraser in my mouth to cope with the stress. Except, this is a pen, and a little brat crashes into my stomach. I bite. Hard.

The ink rushes into my mouth and the dove flies down my throat. I keep the pen in my mouth, not wishing to ruin a gift and a shirt. Disgustingly, it flows into my mouth and follows the dove.

I’ve tasted ink before, unfortunately, and I would know the bitter taste that lingers for hours. But, for the most part, this silver ink is tasteless.

I stay still for five minutes, pen in mouth, until a stop comes up and a seat clears out. I rush to take it like a child to the last cookie, and manage to remove the pen without a droplet falling.

“Definitely the worst thing I’ve done on public transport,” I murmur to myself.

A few moments go by, glooming over the loss of the gift, until the train stops and I’m reminded that god hates me. Out the window, I see rain, thunder, and the valley ruled by coal, steam, and brick. The home of all my dead and dying friends. The worst part is that we were, or are, all young. I hear through murmurs that a tree fell on our path, and I sigh knowing we’ll be here for hours.

Though, I can enjoy some shut-eye.

Waking up felt electrifying. I’ve been asleep for a hundred years, according to my body. I stretched and felt a warm sensation rising from my stomach. I stand up to look for a trash bin or a bathroom, but the warmth exits in a concerning way. Steam.

I’m in a room, not a train. A room of dark green walls and matching white trim and carpet. I limp to the mirror, preparing for the worst, and yet, there I was.

It looked like me, but as I tapped my cheek, I felt the same fakeness as Grimmy had. I was copper or bronze, with rose-gold details, and bright blue eyes. My hair was the same rose-gold, with engraved curls. I resembled the boy that lived in this town, not the man from Maine. I was from the past and the future all the same.

I glared at the door, then to the couch beside it.

I pushed the white leather couch with the little strength I had, then doubled down using the nightstand and the drawers.

Not today, not this year, not ever will the world involve me again. I pity a death by pen, but as I lay down in bed and bet on which wires to pull, I pity the second death by suicide more.