272 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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