Poetry | September 28, 2020

The Neighborhood Girls Catch Lordstown Syndrome

but if you want our version, you’ll pay

in installments. You’ll neigh in a stall

until we come out and free you. We hear you,

we hear you over the factories and over


the wildcats, the slowdowns, the one of many

slanted atop another. All marked down

for condemnation, demolition—baby, do you parse

this diction? Merciful, our kind of telling. Its sheen:


our boyfriends’ sweat rolling off the car plant.

We caught their syndrome—a tragic case—

spreading at the conveyor’s pace,

but we’re no fodder for your headlines.


Our picket line is understood:

another day in the neighborhood.

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