We are plain and tall in Indiana
just like the books and songs say.
We focus our eyes on birds, study
their movements between the blades
of grass that stick to our knees
in the mud, hiding in the same spot
where we were tossed
like discarded ceremonial petals.
We wear our hair shyly, we
wear our skins lightly,
over our heavy hanging muscles.
We all wear the same shapeless dress
the entire length of our lives.
We walk through fields
of prairie stones that cut
through us like bones, predicting
our futures as we spend our lives
trying to forget
the poison field grass, the birds
outside dying on the windowsill,
the beds we can’t make peace with,
our fingerprints embedded
so deeply in our father’s headboards.
first published in After Hours #11 (double check that issue no.)
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