PICKING AT ICE
︎︎︎ Tiresias Tobin-Priest
︎ May 14, 2026
I hope the mountains never
fade to backgrounds. And
I hope your voice still sounds
like rattling from prepubescent
train tracks, horns in the void
and deep drowning a corpse
atlanticism. We little people
clinging, loving—doing what
we can—below an anemic tit,
several layers of parasite thick.
Superman may be a god or beast,
but to us pitiful men it remains to
say, baptized in particular pleasantries:
God, what lot of dependence has fallen
to me; how much for a goodly heritage.
fade to backgrounds. And
I hope your voice still sounds
like rattling from prepubescent
train tracks, horns in the void
and deep drowning a corpse
atlanticism. We little people
clinging, loving—doing what
we can—below an anemic tit,
several layers of parasite thick.
Superman may be a god or beast,
but to us pitiful men it remains to
say, baptized in particular pleasantries:
God, what lot of dependence has fallen
to me; how much for a goodly heritage.
Tiresias Tobin-Priest is a writer from Virginia who will never go to law school.