292 Readings | 1 Rating

Slow, Heavy

when we moved to the midwest we gasped

rolled our windows down

ate cheeseburgers and let frozen cokes burn our tongues    

it took us five days to break onto the prairie

i  looked up ‘agoraphobia’

even though my grandma lived here and her grandma and so on     

jamming jams, fighting dust and tornadoes

back when newspapers called Indians savages

M. found us a house where black mold crept into my lungs

i couldn’t even find air to say sorry for all the fights we had

too tired to cry for my dog who had died one month before

The ghosts only bothered us from the foot of the bed       

speaking through the fan at night     

in the bright day i tried to garden but only struck

a cluster of roots and more    roots     roots      roots

so tore at the sandy ground with my bare hands

until the wind pushed me back inside         

wait, now i have my lungs my dead dog has a shrine

we knock around our tiny apartment but instead of mold    

pretty white  moths bump into us

wings laden with flour,

the shower gets too hot, a sweet sour smell of marijuana

rises from basement dwellers

from the kitchen i spy the river green some days others brown        

out there by the trees that lost their fiery leaves lies my miscarriage

My body remembers the giddiness

of possibility, how i rose

slow, heavy.

Posted 11/23/17
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