Jennifer Martelli's debut poetry collection, The Uncanny Valley, was published in 2016 by Big Table Publishing Company. She is also the author of the chapbook, Apostrophe and the chapbook, After Bird, forthcoming from Grey Book Press. Her work has appeared in Thrush, [Pank], The Baltimore Review, The Heavy Feather Review, and The Pittsburgh Poetry Review. Jennifer Martelli has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net Prizes and is the recipient of the Massachusetts Cultural Council Grant in Poetry. She is a book reviewer for Up the Staircase Quarterly, as well as a co-curator for The Mom Egg VOX Blog Folio.
Canal Street tilts right, bad for the spleen,
bad for the mind
when I drive or idle while
the street's guts are pulled
out into rusted piles of pipe
veins. When the purple line
train moves parallel toward the station
in Salem, I can't tell
if I'm still or moving. The rains
flood this stretch once,
twice, who can count
when it's wet? Every year
after the thaw the men
in orange vests rupture
the pitch, dig up
then patch the road
back a-cant or coned,
leave holes deep
as my teeth. Farther down into the heart
I can buy copper over tin wind-
chimes (weighted by the blue
marbles glued
to their pointed hooks), I can buy
them cheap at Walgreens.
The streets are never smooth
never done and there's so much
river under the city, it floods
and sometimes there are snakes.