"Writing is a way of talking without being interrupted." - Jules RenardAsk me something (:
Midwestern air is honey clots
& red dust & great swooping birds
that block the sun, creak like closing doors.
In early December, my mother makes tart
from apple skin & the sloppy insides of wooden cacti,
boils stems in salted water, shaves dead trees.
The tart is burned every year. Clockwork.
The audience applauds.
Auburn, Indiana is berry blonde children
with moth hole teeth, hand-washed
laundry tied between trailers, husky cornfields,
concave barns, sky
blue of frozen lakes, hot breathe in 27,
skating on clear ice. A boy makes a promise
in a red pick up truck. A girl lets him pull her apart,
like onion skin. The audience thinks:
This must be the coldest winter this county has seen in decades.
In early December, gravel frosts over,
pharmacies are looted, girls like me don’t have much
to say. Mothers make tart, remember midwestern
air, peel sweet cacti, undress corn. Wait.
Creak like closing doors. Applause.