Morgantown, West Virginia
Amy M. AlvarezPoetry / Number 97
The neighborhood Wi-Fi network list runs from FuckPad to Xfinity.
Across the street, a dog won’t stop barking. It’s cold and he whines
like a whimpering child. Maybe it’s the sound of the train whistle
that upsets him. We’re far from needing the warning in this bed
that smells of fabric softener and the soft pepper of cats. Trains
carry the coal that brings back the money that state politicians
will use to gussy up the now-flooded golf course and resort they
frequent, to hire some university professor with dusty books she
can’t part with, even after four states. Little is spent on miners’
black lung, on their shattered children, the tracks on their arms
forming maps of constellations they’d like to become someday.
Amy M. Alvarez was born in New York, New York, and now calls West Virginia home. Her poetry has been published in The Missouri Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Rattle, and Sugar House Review, and elsewhere. Amy received her MFA from the Stonecoast Program at the University of Southern Maine. She currently teaches writing at West Virginia University.Image by Juan Encalada